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i 


THE STORY OF THE GADSBYS 





THE 


STORY OF THE GADSBYS 


BY 

RUDYARD KIPLING 



New York 

FRANK F. LOVELL COMPANY 
23 Duane Street 


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CONTENTS 


i 

5 


PAGE 

. R Dear Mama 7 

World Without 22 

The Tents of Kedar 37 

With any Amazement 52 

The Garden of Eden 66 

Fatima So 

The Valley of the Shadow 99 

The Swelling of Jordan 113 




















PREFACE. 


To THE ADDRESS OF 

CAPTAIN J. MAFFLIN, 

Duke of Derrfs (^Fink) Hussars, 
Dear Mafflin, — You will remember that 
I wrote this story as an Awful Warning. 
None the less you have seen fit to disregard it 
and have followed Gadsby’s example — as I 
betted you would. I acknowledge that you 
paid the money at once, but you have prej- 
udiced the mind of Mrs. Mafflin against my- 
self, for though I am almost the only respect- 
able friend of your bachelor days, she has 
been darwaza hand to me throughout the sea- 
son. Further, she caused you to invite me to 
dinner at the Club, where you called me a 
wild ass of the desert,’’ and went home at 
half-past ten, after discoursing for twenty 
minutes on the responsibilities of housekeep- 
ing. You now drive a mail-phaeton and sit 
under a Church of England clergyman. I 
am not angry. Jack. It is your kisrnet^ as it 
was Gaddy’s, and his kismet who can avoid ? 
jDo not think that I am moved by a spirit of 
'revenge as I write, thus publicly, that you 

3 


4 


Preface 


and you alone are responsible for this book. ■. 
In other and more expansive days, when you* 
could look at a magnum without flushing and] 
at a cheroot without turning white, you sup-1 
plied me with most of the material. Take it 1 
back again — would that I could have pre-J 
served your fetterless speech in the telling — •; 
take it back, and by your slippered hearth! 
read it to the late Miss Deercourt. She will] 
not be any the more willing to receive myj 
cards, but she will admire you immensely, and 
you, I feel sure, will love me. You may everfi 
invite me to another very bad dinner — at the' i 
Club, which, as you and your wife know, is i 
safe neutral ground for the entertainment of j 
wild asses. Then, my very dear hypocrite,^! 
we shall be quits. 

Yours always, 11 

RUDYARD KIPLING. | 

S , — On second thoughts I should recom- 
mend you to keep the book away from Mrs. 
Mafflin. j 


V 


POOR DEAR MAMA 


The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, 

The deer to the wholesome wold, 

And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, 

As it was in the days of old. 

Gypsy Song. 

Scene. — Interior of Miss Minnie Three- 
can’s bedroom at Simla. Miss Threegan, 
in window-seat., turjiing over a drawerful of 
chiffons. Miss Emma Deercourt, bosom- 
friend, who has come to spend the day, sitting 
071 the bed, manipulating the bodice of a ball- 
room frock and a bunch of artificial lilies of 
the valley. Time 5.30 p. m., on a hot May 
afternoon. 

Miss Deercourt. — And he said : — “ I 
shall never forget this dance,” and, of course, 
I said : — “ Oh 1 How ca7t you be so silly ! ” 
Do you think he meant anything, dear ? 

Miss Threegan. — {Extracting long lav- 
ender silk stocking from the rubbishl) You 
know him better than I do. 

Miss D. — Oh, do be sympathetic, Minnie ! 
I’m sure he does. At least I would be sure 

7 


8 The Story of the Gadsbys 

if he wasn’t always riding with that odious 
Mrs. Hagan. 

Miss T. — I suppose so. How does one 
manage to dance through one’s heels first ? . 
Look at this — isn’t it shameful ? (Spreads 
stocking-heel on open hand for inspection^) 

Miss D. — Never mind that! You can’t 
mend it. Help me with this hateful bodice. 
I’ve run the string so^ and I’ve run the string 
so^ and I ca7iH make the fulness come right. 
Where would you put this ? ( Waves lilies 

of the valley,) 

Miss T. — As high up on the shoulder as 
possible. 

Miss D. — Am I quite tall enough? I 
know it makes May Olger look lop-sided. 

Miss T. — Yes, but May hasn’t your shoul- 
ders. Hers are like a hock-bottle. 

Bearer. — (^Rapping at door,) Captain 
Sahib aya. 

Miss D. — (fufnping up wildly^ and hunting 
for body, which she has discarded owmg to the 
heat of the day,) Captain Sahib I What 
Captain Sahib ? Oh, good gracious, and I’m 
only half dressed 1 Well, I shan’t bother. 

Miss T. — (Calmly,) You needn’t. It 
isn’t for us. That’s Captain Gadsby. He is 
going for a ride with Mama. He generally 
comes five days out of the seven. 

Agonized Voice. — (From an inner apart- 
ment,) Minnie, run out and give Captain 
Gadsby some tea, and tell him I shall be 


Poor Dear Mama 9 

readj in ten minutes ; and, O Minnie, come 
to me an instant, there^s a dear girl 1 

Miss T. — O bother I (Aloud.) Very well, 
Mama. 

Exify and reappears^ after Jive mitmtes^ 
flushed^ a7id rubbing her fingers. 

Miss D. — You look pink. What has hap- 
pened ? 

Miss T. — (In a stage whisper.) A twenty- 
four-inch waist, and she won’t let it out. 
Where are my bangles? (Rummages on the 
toilet table^ and dabs at her hair with a brush 
m the interval^) 

Miss D. — Who is this Captain Gadsby ? I 
don’t think I’ve met him. 

Miss T. — You must have. He belongs to 
the Harrar set. I’ve danced with him, but 
I’ve never talked to him. He’s a big yellow 
man, just like a newly hatched chicken, with 
an e-normous mustache. He walks like this 
(vnitates Cavalry swagger), and he goes “ Ha 
— Hmmm 1 ” deep down his throat when he 
can’t think of anything to say. Mama likes 
him. I don’t. 

Miss D. — (Abstractedly 1) Does he wax 

that mustache ? 

Miss T. — (Busy with powder-puff 1) Yes, I 
think so. Why ? 

Miss D. — (Bending over the bodice and sew- 
mg furiously.) Oh, nothing — only . . . 

Miss D. — (Sternly.) Only what? Out 

with it, Emma. 


10 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Miss D. — Well, May Olger — she’s engaged 
to Mr. Charteris, you know — said . . . 
Promise you won’t repeat this ? 

Miss T. — Yes, I promise. What did she 
say ? 

Miss D. — That — that being kissed {with a 
rush) by a man who didn^t wax his mustache 
was — like eating an egg without salt. 

Miss T. — {At her full height^ with crushing 
scornl) May Olger is a horrid, nasty Things 
and you can tell her I said so. I’m glad she 
doesn’t belong to my set ... I must go and 
feed this fnan f Do I look presentable ? 

Miss D. — Yes, perfectly. Be quick and 
hand him over to your Mother, and then we 
can talk. I shall listen at the door to hear 
what you say to him. 

Miss T. — ’Sure I don’t care. Vm not 
afraid of Captain Gadsby. 

In proof of this swings into drawing-roo7n with 
a mannish stride followed by two short steps ^ 
which produce the efpect of a restive horse 
entering. Misses Captain Gadsby, who is 
sitting in the shadow of the window-cu7‘tain^ 
and gazes round helplessly. 

Captain Gadsby. — {Aside,) The filly, by 
Jove I Must ha’ picked up that action from 
the sire. {Aloud, rising,) Good evening, 
Miss Threegan. 

Miss T. — {Conscious that she is flushing,) 
Good evening. Captain Gadsby. Mama told 
me to say that she will be ready in a few 


Poor Dear Mama 


II 


minutes. Won’t you have some tea ? (Aside,) 
I hope Mama will be quick. What am I to 
say to the creature? (Aloud a?id abruptly, ) 
Milk and sugar? 

Capt. G. — No sugar, tha-anks, and very 
little milk. Ha-Hmmm. 

Miss T. — (Aside.) If he’s going to do 
that, I’m lost. I shall laugh. I know I 
shall! 

Capt. G. — (Pulling at his mustache and 
watching it sideways down his nose,) Ha- 
Hmmm! (Aside,) ’Wonder what the little 
beast can talk about. ’Must make a shot 
at it. 

Miss T. — (Aside,) Oh, this is agonizing. 
I must say something. 

Both Together. — Have you been . . . 

Capt. G. — I beg your pardon. You were 
going to say — 

Miss T. — ( Who has been watching the mus- 
tache with awed fascination,) Won’t you 
have some eggs ? 

Capt. G. — (Looking bewilderedly at the tea- 
table.) Eggs! (Aside,) Oh, Hades! She 
must have a nursery-tea at this hour. S’pose 
they’ve wiped her mouth and sent her to me 
while the Mother is getting on her duds. 
(Aloud,) No, thanks. 

Miss T. — (Crimson with confusion,) Oh! 
I didn’t mean that. I wasn’t thinking of 
mu — eggs for an instant. I mean salt. 
Won’t you have some sa — sweets? (Aside,) 


12 The Story of the Gadsby? 


He’ll think me a raving lunatic. I wish 
Mama would come. 

Capt. G. — (Aside,) It 7 ms a nursery-tea 
and she’s ashamed of it. By Jove! She 
doesn’t look half bad when she colors up 
like that. (A/oudy helping himself from the 
dish,) Have you seen those new chocolates 
at Peliti’s ? 

Miss T. — No, I made these myself. What 
are they like ? 

Capt. G. — These 1 Z>^-licious. (Aside,) 
And that’s a fact. 

Miss T. — (Aside,) Oh, bother 1 He’ll 
think I’m fishing for compliments. (Aloud.) 
No, Peliti’s of course. 

Capt. G. — (Enthusiastically,) Not to com- 
pare with these. How d’you make them ? 
I can’t get my khans amah to understand 
the simplest thing beyond mutton and 
murghi. 

Miss T. — Yes? I’m not a khansamahy 
you know. Perhaps you frighten him. You 
should never frighten a servant. He loses 
his head. It’s very bad policy. 

Capt. G. — He’s so awfully stupid. 

Miss T. — (Eolding her hands in her lap,) 
You should call him quietly and say : — “ O 
khans amah jee 

Capt. G. — (Getting interested^) Yes ? 
(Aside,) Fancy that little featherweight 
saying, “ O kha7isa7nah jee ” to my blood- 
thirsty Mir Khan 1 


Poor Dear Mama 13 

Miss T. — Then you should explain the 
dinner, disx\ by dish. 

Capt. G.— But I can’t speak the vernacular. 

Miss T. — ■ {Patronizingly,^) You should 
pass the Higher Standard and try. 

Capt. G. — I have, but I don’t seem to be 
any the wiser. Are you ? 

Miss T. — I never passed the Higher Stan- 
dard. But the khansamah is very patient with 
me. He doesn’t get angry when I talk about 
sheep’s topees^ or order maiinds of grain when 
I mean seers, 

Capt. G. — {Aside ^ with intense indigna- 
tion.) I’d like to see Mir Khan being rude to 
that girl ! Hullo ! Steady the Buffs ! {Aloud,) 
And do you understand about horses, too ? 

Miss T. — A little — not very much. I can’t 
doctor them, but I know what they ought to 
eat, and I am in charge of our stable. 

Capt. G. — Indeed ! You might help me 
then. What ought a man to give his sais in 
the Hills ? My ruffian says eight rupees, 
because everything is so dear. 

Miss T. — Six rupees a month, and one 
rupee Simla allowance — neither more nor less. 
And a grass-cut gets six rupees. That’s better 
than buying grass in the bazar. 

Capt. G. — {Admiringly,) How do you 
know ? 

Miss T. — I have tried both ways. 

Capt. G. — Do you ride much, then ? 
never seen you on the Mall ? 


I’ve 


14 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Miss T. — (Aside,) I haven’t passed him 
than fifty times. (Aloud,) Nearly every 

day. 

Capt. G. — By Jove 1 I didn’t know that. 
Ha-Hmmm ! (Pulls at his mustaches and is 
silent for forty seco?ids,) 

Miss T. — (Desperately, and wondering what 
will happen next,) It looks beautiful. I 
shouldn’t touch it if I were you. (Aside,) 
It’s all Mama’s fault for not coming before. 
I will be rude 1 

Capt. G. — (Bronzing under the tan, and 
bringing down his hand very quickly 1) Eh ? 
Wha-at ! Oh, yes 1 Ha ! Ha ! (Laughs un- 
easily. Aside,) Well, of all the dashed 
cheek 1 I never had a woman say that to me 
yet. She must be a cool hand or else . . . 
Ah ! that nursery tea ! 

Voice from the Unknown. — Tchk I Tchk 1 
Tchk! 

Capt. G. — Good gracious ! What’s that ? 

Miss T. — The dog, I think. (Aside,) 
Emma has been listening, and I’ll never for- 
give her ! . 

Capt. O. — (Aside,) They don’t keep dogs 
here. (Aloud,) ’Didn’t sound like a dog, did 
it ? 

Miss T. — Then it must have been the cat. 
Let’s go into the veranda. What a lovely 
evening it is I 

Steps into veranda and looks out across the 
hills into sunset. The Captain follows. 


Poor Dear Mama 


15 


Capt. G. — {Aside.) Superb eyes ! I wonder 
that I never noticed them before ! {Aloud.) 
There^s going to be a dance at Viceregal 
Lodge on Wednesday. Can you spare me 
one ? 

Miss T. — {Shortly.) No 1 I don't want 
any of your charity-dances. You only ask me 
because Mama told you to. I hop and I 
bump. You k7to7Cf I do ! 

Capt. G. {Aside.) That’s true, but little 
girls shouldn’t understand these things. 
{Aloud.) No, on my word, I don’t. You 
dance beautifully. 

Miss T. — Then why do you always stand 
out after half a dozen turns ? I thought offi- 
cers in the Army didn’t tell fibs. 

Capt. G. — It wasn’t a fib, believe me. I 
really do want the pleasure of a dance with 
you. 

Miss T.— {Wickedly). Why? Won’t 
Mama dance with you any more ? 

Capt. G. — {More earnestly than the necessity 
demands.) I wasn’t thinking of your Mother. 
{Aside.) You little vixen ! 

Miss T. — {Still looking out of the window.) 
Eh ? Oh, I beg your pardon. I was think- 
ing of something else. 

Capt. G. — {Aside.) Well ! I wonder 
what she’ll say next. I’ve never known a 
woman treat me like this before. I might be 
• — Dash it, I might be an Infantry subaltern 1 
{Aloud.) Ohf please don't trouble. I’m not 


1 6 The Story of the Gadsbys 

worth thinking about. Isn’t your Mother 
ready yet ? 

Miss T. — I should think so ; but promise 
me, Captain Gadsby, you won’t take poor 
dear Mama twice round Jakko any more. It 
tires her so. 

Capt. G. — She says that no exercise tires 
her. 

Miss T. — Yes, but she suffers afterwards. 
You don’t know what rheumatism is, and you 
oughtn’t to keep her out so late, when it gets 
chilly in the evenings. 

Capt. G. — (Aside,) Rheumatism ! I 
thought she came off her horse rather in a 
bunch. Whew ! One lives and learns. 
(Aloudi) I’m sorry to hear that. She hasn’t 
mentioned it to me. 

Miss T. — (Flurried.) Of course not 1 Poor 
dear Mama never would. And you mustn’t 
say that I told you either. Promise me that 
you won’t. Oh, Captain Gadsby, promise me 
you won’t ! 

Capt. G. — I am dumb, or — I shall be as 
soon as you’ve given me that dance, and an- 
other ... if you can trouble yourself to think 
about me for a minute. 

Miss T. — But you won’t like it one little bit. 
You’ll be awfully sorry afterwards. 

Capt. G. — I shall like it above all things, 
and I shall only be sorry that I didn’t get 
more. (Aside.) Now what in the world am 
I saying ? 


Poor Dear Mama 


17 


Miss T. — Very well. You will have only 
yourself to thank if your toes are trodden on. 
Shall we say Seven ? 

Capt. G. — And Eleven. (Aside.) She 
can^t be more than eight stone, but, even then, 
it’s an absurdly small foot. (Looks at his own 
riding boots.) 

Miss T. — They’re beautifully shiny. I can 
almost see my face in them. 

Capt. G. — I was thinking whether I should 
have to go on crutches for the rest of my life 
if you trod on my toes. 

Miss T. — Very likely. Why not change 
Eleven for a square ? 

Capt. G. — No, please ! I want them both 
waltzes. Won’t you write them down ? 

Miss T. — /don’t get so many dances that 
I shall confuse them. You will be the of- 
fender. 

Capt. G. — Wait and see ! (Aside.) She 
doesn’t dance perfectly, perhaps, but . . . 

Miss T. — Your tea must have got cold by 
this time. Won’t you have another cup ? 

Capt. G. — No, thanks. Don’t you think 
it’s pleasanter out in the veranda ? (Aside.) 
I never saw hair take that color in the sun- 
shine before. (Aloud.) It’s like one of 
Dicksee’s pictures. 

Miss T. — Yes ! It’s a wonderful sunset, 
isn’t it ? (Bluntly.) But what do yoti know 
about Dicksee’s pictures ? 

Capt. G. — I go Home occasionally. And 
2 


i8 The Story of the Gadsbys 

I used to know the Galleries. {Nervously.) 
You mustn’t think me only a Philistine with 
... a mustache. 

Miss T. — Don’t ! Please don’t ! I’m 
sorry for what I said then. I was horribly 
rude. It slipped out before I thought. Don’t 
you know the temptation to say frightful and 
shocking things just for the mere sake of say- 
ing them ? I’m afraid I gave way to it. 

Capt. G. — ( Watching the girl as she flushes.) 
I think I know the feeling. It would be ter- 
rible if we all yielded to it, wouldn’t it ? For 
instance, I might say . . . 

Poor dear Mama. — {Enterings habited^ 
hatted^ a7id booted.) Ah, Captain Gadsby ! 
’Sorry to keep you waiting. ’Hope you 
haven’t been bored. ’My little girl been talk- 
ing to you ? 

Miss T. — (Aside.) I’m not sorry I spoke 
about the rheumatism. I’m not! I’m not 1 
I only wish I’d mentioned the corns too. 

Capt. G. — (Aside.) What a shame 1 I 
wonder how old she is. It never occurred to 
me before. (Aloud.) We’ve been discussing 
Shakespeare and the musical glasses ” in 
the veranda. 

Miss T. — (Aside.) Nice man I He knows 
that quotation. He mid a Philistine with a 
mustache. (Aloud.) Good-by, Captain 
Gadsby. (Aside.) What a huge hand and 
what a squeeze 1 I don’t suppose he meant 
it, but he has driven the rings into my fingers. 


Poor Dear Mama 


19 


Poor dear Mama. — Has Vermilion come 
round yet ? Oh, yes ! Captain Gadsby, 
don’t you think that the saddle is too far for- 
ward ? (They pass into the front veranda,) 

Capt. G — (Aside,) How the dickens 
should I know what she prefers ? She told 
me that she doted on horses. (Aloud,) I 
think it is. 

Miss T. — (Coming out into front veranda,) 
Oh 1 Bad Buldoo ! I must speak to him for 
this. He has taken up the curb two links, 
and Vermilion hates that. (Passes out and to 
horse's head,) 

Capt. G. — Let me do it ! 

Miss T. — No, Vermilion understands me. 
Don’t you, old man ? (Looses curb-cham skil- 
fully^ and pats horse on 710 se and throttle,) 
Poor Vermilion ! Did they want to cut his 
chin off ? There ! 

Captain Gadsby watches the interlude with 
undisguised admiratiofi. 

Poor dear Mama. — (Tartly to Miss T.) 
You’ve forgotten your guest, I think, dear. 

Miss T. — Good gracious ! So I have ! 
Good-by. (Retreats mdoors hastily,) 

Poor dear Mama. — (Bunching reins m 
fitigers hampered by too tight gauntlets,) Cap- 
tain Gadsby ! 

Capt. Gadsby stoops and makes the foot-rest. 
Poor dear Mama blunders^ halts too long, and 
breaks through it. 

Captain G. — (Aside,) Can’t hold up 


20 The Story of the Gadsbys 

eleven stone forever. It^s all your rheu- 
matism. (Aloud,) Can’t imagine why I was 
so clumsy. (Aside.) Now Little Feather- 
weight would have gone up like a bird. 

T/iey ride out of the garden. The Captain 
falls hack. 

Capt. G. — (Aside.) How that habit 
catches her under the arms ! Ugh ! < 

Poor dear Mama. — (With the worn 
smile of sixteefi seasons^ the worse for exchange. ) 
You’re dull this afternoon, Captain Gadsby. 

Capt. — (Spurrhig up wearily.) Why did 
you keep me waiting so long ? 

Et ccetera^ et ccetera^ et ccetera. 

(an interval of three weeks.) 
Gilded Youth. — (Sitting on railings opposite 
Town Hall . ) Hullo, Gaddy ! ’Been trotting 
out the Gorgonzola ? We all thought it was 
the Gorgon you’re mashing. 

Capt. G. — (Wiih withering emphasis.) You 

young cub 1 What the does it matter to 

you ? 

Proceeds to read Gilded Youth a lecture on 
discretio7i a?id deportment^ which crumples latter 
like a Chinese Lanter7i. Departs fumhig. 

(further interval of five weeks.) 
Scene. — Exterior of New Library on a foggy 
evenmg. Miss Threegan a7id Miss Deer- 
court meet among the '‘rickshaws. Miss 
T. is carry mg a bundle of books under her left 
arm. 


Poor Dear Mama 


21 


Miss D. — {Level intonation,') Well ? 

Miss T. — (AseenLing intonation,) Well? 

Miss D. — {Capturmg her /rmicL^s left arni^ 
taking away all the hooks ^ placmg books in 
Viekshaw, returning to arm, securing hand by 
the third finger and investigating,) Well ! 
you bad girl ! And you never told me. 

Miss T. — {Demurely,) He — he — he only 
spoke yesterday afternoon. 

Miss D. — Bless you, dear ! And Vm to 
be bridesmaid, aren’t I ? You hiow you 
promised ever so long ago. 

Miss T. — Of course. I’ll tell you all about 
it to-morrow. ( Gets into ^ rickshaw i) Oh, 
Emma 1 

Miss D. — ( With inte7ise mterest,) Yes, 
dear ? 

Miss T. — {Piano,) It’s quite true . . . 
about . . . the . . . egg. 

Miss D. — What egg ? 

Miss T. — {Pianissimo prestissimo i) The 
egg without the salt. {Forte,) Chalo ghar ko 
jaldi, jhampani I 


CURTAIN. 


THE WORLD WITHOUT. 


“ Certain people of importance.” 

Scene. — Smoking-room of the Degchi Club. 
Time 10.30 v, u, of a stuffy night in the 
Tams. Four men dispersed in picturesque 
attitudes and easy-chairs. To these efiter 
Blayne of the Irregular Moguls^ in evening 
dress. 

Blayne. — Phew! The Judge ought to be 
hanged in his own store-godown. Hi, khit- 
matgar I Poora whisky-peg, to take the 
taste out of my mouth. 

Curtiss. — (Royal Artillery.) That’s it, is 
it ? What the deuce made you dine at the 
Judge’s ? You know his baiidohust. 

Blayne. — ’Thought it couldn’t be worse 
than the Club ; but I’ll swear he buys ullaged 
liquor and doctors it with gin and ink. (Look- 
inground the room.) Is this all of you to-night ? 

Doone. — (F. W. D.) Anthony was called 
out at dinner. Mingle had a pain in his tummy. 

Curtiss. — Miggy dies of cholera once a 
week in the Rains, and gets drunk on chloro- 
22 


The World Without 


23 

dyne in between. ’Good little chap, though. 
Any one at the Judge’s, Blayne ? 

Blayne. — Cockley and his memsahib looking 
awfully white and fagged. ’Female girl — 
couldn’t catch the name — on her way to the 
Hills, under the Cockleys’ charge — the Judge, 
and Markyn fresh from Simla — disgustingly fit. 

Curtiss. — Good Lord, how truly magnifi- 
cent ! Was there enough ice ? When I man- 
gled garbage there I got one whole lump — 
nearly as big as a walnut. What had Markyn 
to say for himself ? 

Blayne. — ’Seems that every one is having a 
fairly good time up there in spite of the rain. 
By Jove, that reminds me! I know I hadn’t 
come across just for the pleasure of your so- 
ciety. News I Great news! Markyn told me. 

Doone. — Who’s dead now ? 

Blayne. — No one that I know of ; but 
Gaddy’s hooked at last 1 

Dropping Chorus. — How much ? The 
Devil 1 Markyn was pulling your leg. Not 
Gaddy 1 

Blayne. — “ Yea, verily, verily, verily 1 
Verily, verily, I say unto thee.” Theodore, 
the gift o’ God 1 Our Phillup 1 It’s been given 
out up above. 

Mackesy. — {Barrister-at-law^ Huh 1 Wo- 
men will give out anything. What does ac- 
cused say ? 

Blayne. — Markyn told me that he con- 
gratulated him warily — one hand held out, 


24 The Story of the Gadsbys 

t’other ready to guard. Gaddy turned pink 
and said it was so. 

Curtiss. — Poor old Gaddy ! They all do it. 
Who’s she ? Let’s hear the details. 

Blayne. — She’s a girl — daughter of a 
Colonel Somebody. 

Doone. — Simla’s stiff with .Colonels’ daugh- 
ters. Be more explicit. 

Blayne. — Wait a shake. What was her 
name ? Three — something. Three — 

Curtiss. — Stars, perhaps. Gaddy knows 
that brand. 

Blayne. — Threegan — Minnie Threegan. 

Mackesy. — Threegan ! Isn’t she a little 
bit of a girl with red hair ? 

Blayne. — ’Bout that — from what Markyn 
said. 

Mackesy. — Then I’ve met her. She was 
at Lucknow last season. ’Owned a perma- 
nently juvenile Mama, and danced damnably. 
I say, Jervoise, you knew the Threegans, didn’t 
you ? 

Jervoise. — (Civilian of twenty-five years'* 
service^ waking tip from his doze,) Eh ! What’s 
that ? Knew who ? How ? I thought I was 
at Home, confound you 1 

Mackesy. — The Threegan girl’s engaged, 
so Blayne says. 

Jervoise. — (Slowly,) Engaged — engaged ! 
Bless my soul ! I’m getting an old man ! Little 
Minnie Threegan engaged 1 It was only the 
other day I went home with them in the Surat 


The World Without 25 

— no, the Massilia — and she was crawling 
about on her hands and knees among the 
ayahs. ’Used to call me the Tick Tack Sahib ” 
because I showed her my watch. And that 
was in Sixty-Seven — no, Seventy. Good God, 
how time flies ! I’m an old man. I remember 
when Threegan married Miss Derwent — 
daughter of old Hooky Derwent — but that 
was before your time. And so the little baby’s 
engaged to have a little baby of her own 1 
Who’s the other fool ? 

Mackes Y. — Gadsby of the Pink Hussars. 

Jervoise. — ’Never met him. Threegan 
lived in debt, married in debt, and’ll die in 
debt. ’Must be glad to get the girl off his hands. 

Blayne. — Gaddy has money — lucky devil. 
Place at Home, too. 

Doone. — He comes, of first-class stock. 
’Can’t quite understand his being caught by a 
Colonel’s daughter, and (looking cautiously 
round room) Black Infantry at that I No 
offense to you, Blayne. 

Blayne — (Stiffly.) Not much, tha-anks. 

Curtiss. — (Quoting motto of Irregular Mo- 
guls.) “We are what we are,” eh, old man ? 
But Gaddy was such a superior animal as a 
rule. Why didn’t he go Home and pick his 
wife there ? 

Mackesy. — They are all alike when they 
come to the turn into the straight. About 
thirty a man begins to get sick of living 
alone — 


26 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Curtiss. — And of the eternal muttony-chop 
in the morning. 

Doone. — It’s dead goat as a rule, but go on, 
Mackesy. 

Mackesy. — If a man’s once taken that way 
nothing will hold him. Do you remember 
Benoit of your service, Doone ? They trans- 
ferred him to Tharanda when his time came, 
and he married a plate-layer’s daughter, or 
something of that kind. She was the only 
female about the place. 

Doone. — Yes, poor brute. That smashed 
Benoit’s chances altogether. Mrs. Benoit 
used to ask : — ‘‘ Was you goin’ to the dance 
this evenin’ ? ” 

Curtiss. — Hang it all ! Gaddy hasn’t mar- 
ried beneath him. There’s no tar-brush in 
the family, I suppose. 

Jervoise. — Tar-brush! Not an anna. You 
young fellows talk as though the man was 
doing the girl an honor in marrying her. 
You’re all too conceited — nothing’s good 
enough for you. 

Blayne. — Not even an empty Club, a dam’ 
bad dinner at the Judge’s, and a Station as 
sickly as a hospital. You’re quite right. 
We’re a set of Sybarites. 

Doone. — Luxurious dogs, wallowing in — 

Curtiss. — Prickly heat between the 
shoulders. I’m covered with it. Let’s hope 
Beora will be cooler. 

Blayne. — Whew! Are you ordered into 


The World Without 27 

camp, too ? I thought the Gunners had a 
clean sheet. 

Curtiss. — No, worse luck. Two cases 
yesterday — one died — and if we have a third, 
out we go. Is there any shooting at Beora, 
Doone ? 

Doone. — The country’s under water, ex- 
cept the patch by the Grand Trunk Road. I 
was there yesterday, looking at a biind^ and 
came across four poor devils in their last 
stage. It’s rather bad from here to Kuchara. 

Curtiss. — Then we’re pretty certain to 
have a heavy go of it. Heigho ! I shouldn’t 
mind changing places with Gaddy for a while. 
’Sport with Amaryllis in the shade of the 
Town Hall, and all that. Oh, why doesn’t 
somebody come and marry me, instead of let- 
ting me go into cholera camp ? 

Mackesy — ( Pointing to notice forhiddmg dogs 
in the Clubi) Ask the Committee. 

Curtiss. — You irreclaimable ruffian 1 
You’ll stand me another peg for that. Blayne, 
what will you take ? Mackesy is fined on 
moral grounds. Doone, have you any pref- 
erence ? 

Doone. — Small glass Kiimmel, please. 
Excellent carminative, these days. Anthony 
told me so. 

Mackesy — {Signing voucher for four drmksi) 
Most unfair punishment. I only thought of 
Curtiss as Actaeon being chivied round the 
billiard tables by the nymphs of Diana. 


28 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Blayne. — Curtiss would have to import his 
nymphs by train. Mrs. Cockley’s the only 
woman in the Station. She won’t leave Cock- 
ley, and he’s doing his best to get her to go. 

Curtiss. — Good, indeed ! Here’s Mrs. 
Cockley’s health. To the only wife in the 
Station and a damned brave woman I 

Omnes — (^Drinking,') A damned brave 
woman 1 

Blayne. — I suppose Gaddy will bring his 
wife here at the end of the cold weather. 
They are going to be married almost immedi- 
ately, I believe. 

Curtiss. — Gaddy may thank his luck that 
the Pink Hussars are all detachment and no 
headquarters this hot weather, or he’d be 
torn from the arms of his love as sure as 
death. Have you ever noticed the thorough- 
minded way British Cavalry takes to cholera ? 
It’s because they are so expensive. If the 
Pinks had stood fast here, they would have 
been out in camp a month ago. Yes, I should 
decidedly like to be Gaddy. 

Mackesy. — He’ll go Home after he’s mar- 
ried, and send in his papers — see if he 
doesn’t. 

Blayne. — Why shouldn’t he? Hasn’t he 
money ? Would any of us be here if we 
weren’t paupers ? 

Doone. — Poor old pauper I What has 
become of the six hundred you rooked from 
our table last month ? 


The World Without 


29 


Blayne. — It took unto itself wings. I 
think an enterprising tradesman got some of 
it, and a shroff gobbled the rest — or else I 
spent it. 

Curtiss. — Gaddy never had dealings with 
a shroff in his life. 

Doone. — Virtuous Gaddy ! If /had three 
thousand a month, paid from England, I don’t 
think I’d deal with a shroff either. 

Mackesy — ( Yawning^ Oh, it’s a sweet 
life I I wonder whether matrimony would 
make it sweeter. 

Curtiss. — Ask Cockley — with his wife 
dying by inches I 

Blayne. — Go home and get a fool of a girl 
to come out to — ^what is it Thackeray says ? 
— “ the splendid palace of an Indian pro-con- 
sul.” 

Doone. — Which reminds me. My quar- 
ters leak like a sieve. I had fever last night 
from sleeping in a swamp. And the worst of 
it is, one can’t do anything to a roof till the 
Rains are over. 

Curtiss. — What’s wrong with you ? You 
haven’t eighty rotting Tommies to take into a 
running stream. 

Doone. — No : but I’m a compost of boils 
and bad language. I’m a regular Job all over 
my body. It’s sheer poverty of blood, and I 
don’t see any chance of getting richer — either 
way. 

Blayne. — Can’t you take leave ? 


30 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Doone. — That’s the pull you Army men 
have over us. Ten days are nothing in your 
sight. Fm so important that Government 
can’t find a substitute if I go away. Ye-es, 
I’d like to be Gaddy, whoever his wife may 
be. 

Curtiss. — You’ve passed the turn of life 
that Mackesy was speaking of. 

Doone. — Indeed I have, but I never yet 
had the brutality to ask a woman to share my 
life out here. 

Blayne. — On my soul I believe you’re 
right. I’m thinking of Mrs. Cockley. The 
woman’s an absolute wreck. 

Doone. — Exactly. Because she stays down 
here. The only way to keep her fit would be 
to send her to the Hills for eight months — 
and the same with any woman. I fancy I see 
myself taking a wife on those terms. 

Mackesy. — With the rupee at one and six- 
pence. The little Doones would be little 
Dehra Doones, with a fine Mussoorie chi-chi to 
bring home for the holidays. 

Curtiss. — And a pair of be-ewtiful sam 
M?/r-horns for Doone to wear, free of expense, 
presented by — 

Doone. — Yes, it’s an enchanting prospect. 
By the way, the rupee hasn’t done fall- 
ing yet. The time will come when we shall 
think ourselves lucky if we only lose half our 
pay. 

Curtiss. — Surely a third’s loss enough. 


The World Without 


31 

Who gains by the arrangement ? That’s what 
I want to know. 

Blayne. — The Silver Question ! I’m going 
to bed if you begin squabbling. Thank Good- 
ness, here’s Anthony — looking like a ghost. 

E7iter Anthony^ Lidian Medical Staffs veiy 
white and tired, 

Anthony. — ’Evening, Blayne. It’s raining 
in sheets. Peg lao^ khitmatgar. The roads 
are something ghastly. 

Curtiss. — How’s Mingle ? 

Anthony. — Very bad, and more frightened. 
I handed him over to Fewton. Mingle might 
just as well have called him in the first place, 
instead of bothering me. 

Blayne. — He’s a nervous little chap. 
What has he got this time ? 

Anthony. — Can’t quite say. A very bad 
tummy and a blue funk so far. He asked me 
at once if it was cholera, and I told him not 
to be a fool. That soothed him. 

Curtiss — Poor devil ! The funk does half 
the business in a man of that build. 

Anthony. — {Lighting a cherooti) I firmly 
believe the funk will kill him if he stays down. 
You know the amount of trouble he’s been 
giving Fewton for the last three weeks. He’s 
doing his very best to frighten himself into 
the grave. 

General Chorus. — Poor little devil ! Why 
doesn’t he get away ? 

Anthony. — ’Can’t. He has his leave all 


32 The Story of the Gadsbys 

right, but he^s so dipped he can’t take it, and 
I don’t think his name on paper would raise 
four annas. That’s in confidence, hough. 

Mackesy. — All the Station knows it. 

Anthony. — ‘‘ I suppose I shall have to die 
here,” he said, squirming all across the bed. 
He’s quite made up his mind to Kingdom 
Come. And I know he has nothing more 
than a wet-weather tummy if he could only 
keep a hand on himself. 

Blayne. — That’s bad. That’s very bad. 
Poor little Miggy. Good little chap, too. I 
say — 

Anthony. — What do you say ? 

Blayne. — Well, look here — anyhow. If 

it’s like that — as you say — I say fifty. 

Curtiss. — I say fifty. 

Mackesy. — I go twenty better. 

Doone. — Bloated Croesus of the Bar! I 
say fifty. Jervoise, what do you say? Hi I 
Wake up I 

Jervoise. — Eh! What’s that? What’s 

that? 

Curtiss. — We want a hundred dibs from 
you. You’re a bachelor drawing a gigantic 
income, and there’s a man in a hole. 

Jervoise. — What man ? Any one dead ? 

Blayne. — No, but he’ll die if you don’t 
give the hundred. Here ! Here’s a peg- 
voucher. You can see what we’ve signed 
for, and a chaprassi will come round to-morrow 
to collect it. So there will be no trouble. 


The World Without 


33 


Jervoise — (signing). One hundred, E. M. 
J. There you are. (Feebly,) It isn’t one o£ 
your jokes, is it ? 

Blayne. — No, it really is wanted. An- 
thony, you were the biggest poker-winner 
last week, and you’ve defrauded the tax-col- 
lector too long. Sign ! 

Anthony. — Let’s see. Three fifties and a 
seventy — two twenty — three twenty — say four 
twenty. That’ll give him a month clear at the 
Hills. Many thanks, you men. I’ll send 
round the chaprassi to-morrow. 

Curtiss. — You must engineer his taking, 
the stuff, and of course you mustn’t — 

Anthony. — Of course. It would never do. 
He’d weep with gratitude over his evening 
drink. 

Blayne. — That’s just what he would do, 
damn him. Oh I I say, Anthony, you pre- 
tend to know everything. Have you heard 
about Gaddy ? 

Anthony. — No. Divorce Court at last ? 

Blayne. — Worse. He’s engaged. 

Anthony. — How much ? He caii't be I 

Blayne. — He is. He’s going to be mar- 
ried in a few weeks. Markyn told me at the 
Judge’s this evening. It’s pukka, 

Anthony. — You don’t say so ? Holy 
Moses 1 There’ll be a shine in the tents of 
Kedar. 

Curtiss. — ’Regiment cut up rough, think 
you ? 

3 


34 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Anthony. — ’Don’t know anything about 
the Regiment. 

Mackesy. — It is bigamy, then ? 

Anthony. — Maybe. Do you mean to say 
that you men have forgotten or is there more 
charity in the world than I thought ? 

Doone. — You don’t look pretty when you 
are trying to keep a secret. You bloat. Ex- 
plain. 

Anthony. — Mrs. Herriott ! 

Blayne — {After a long paiise^ to the room 
generally). It’s my notion that we are a set 
of fools. 

Mackesy. — Nonsense. That business was 
knocked on the head last season. Why, 
young Mallard — 

Anthony. — Mallard was a candlestick, 
paraded as such. Think a while. Recollect 
last season and the talk then. Mallard or no 
Mallard, did Gaddy ever talk to any other 
woman ? 

Curtiss. — There’s something in that. It 
was slightly noticeable now you come to men- 
tion it. But she’s at Naini Tal and he’s at 
Simla. 

Anthony. — He had to go to Simla to look 
after a globl e-trotter relative of his — a person 
with a title. Uncle or aunt. 

Blayne. — And there he got engaged. No 
law prevents a man growing tired of a 
woman. 

Anthony. — Except that he mustn’t do it till 


The World Without 35 

the woman is tired of him. And the Hernott 
woman was not that. 

Curtiss. — She may be now. Two months 
of Naini Tal work wonders. 

Doone. — Curious thing how some women 
carry a Fate with them. There was a Mrs. 
Deegie in the Central Provinces whose men 
invariably fell away and got married. It be- 
came a regular proverb with us when I was 
down there. I remember three men desper- 
ately devoted to her, and they all, one after 
another, took wives. 

Curtiss. — That’s odd. Now I should have 
thought that Mrs. Deegie’s influence would 
have led them to take other men’s wives. It 
ought to have made them afraid of the judg- 
ment of Providence. 

Anthony. — Mrs. Herriott will make Gaddy 
afraid of something more than the judgment 
of Providence, I fancy. 

Blayne. — Supposing things are as you say, 
he’ll be a fool to face her. He’ll sit tight at 
Simla. 

Anthony. — ’Shouldn’t be a bit surprised 
if he went off to Naini to explain. He’s an 
unaccountable sort of man, and she’s likely 
to be a more than unaccountable woman. 

Doone. — What makes you take her char- 
acter away so confidently ? 

Anthony. — Primufn tempus, Gaddy was 
her first, and a woman doesn’t allow her first 
man to drop away without expostulation. She 


36 The Story of the Gadsbys 

justifies the first transfer of affection to her- 
self by swearing that it is forever and ever. 
Consequently . . . 

Blayne. — Consequently, we are sitting 
here till past one o^clock, talking scandal 
like a set of Station cats. Anthony, it’s all 
your fault. We were perfectly respectable 
till you came in. Go to bed. I’m off. Good 
night all. 

Curtiss. — Past one 1 It’s past two, by 
Jove, and here’s the khit coming for the late 
charge. Just Heavens ! One, two, three, 
iom^five rupees to pay for the pleasure of 
saying that a poor little beast of a woman is 
no better than she should be. I’m ashamed 
of myself. Go to bed, you slanderous villains, 
and if I’m sent to Beora to-morrow, be pre- 
pared to hear I’m dead before paying my 
card-account ! 


CURTAIN. 


THE TENTS OF KEDAR. 


Only why should it be with pain at all, 

Why must I ’twixt the leaves of coronal 
Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow ? 

Why should the other women know so much, 

Vna talk together : — Such the look and such 

The smile he used to love with, then as now. 

A ny Wife to any Husband, 

Scene, — A Naini Tal dinner for thirty-four, 
Plate ^ wines ^ crockery^ and khitmatgars 
carefully calculated to scale of Rs, 6,000 per 
mensem^ less exchange. Table split length- 
ways by banks of flowers, 

Mrs. Herriott. — (After conversation has 
risen to proper pitch,') Ah ! ’Didn’t see you 
in the crush in the drawing-room. (Sotto 
voce,) Where have you been all this while, 
Pip ? 

Captain Gadsby. — (Turning from regu- 
larly ordained dinner partner and settling hock 
glasses,) Good evening. (Sotto voce,) Not 
quite so loud another time. You’ve no 
notion how your voice carries. (Aside,) So 
much for shirking the written explanation. 
It’ll have to be a verbal one now. Sweet 

37 


38 The Story of the Gadsbys 

prospect ! How on earth am I to tell her that 
I am a respectable, engaged member of so- 
ciety and it^s all over between us ? 

Mrs. H. — IVe a heavy score against you. 
Where were you at the Monday Pop? Where 
were you on Tuesday ? Where were you at 
the Laments’ tennis ? I was looking every- 
where. 

Capt. G. — For me ? Oh, I was alive 
somewhere, I suppose. (Aside,) It’s for 
Minnie’s sake, but it’s going to be dashed 
unpleasant. 

Mrs. H. — Have I done anything to offend 
you ? I never meant it if I have. I couldn’t 
help going for a ride with the Vaynor man. 
It was promised a week before you came 
up. 

Capt. G. — I didn’t know — 

Mrs. H. — It really was, 

Capt. G. — Anything about it, I mean. 

Mrs. H. — What has upset you to-day ? 
All these days ? You haven’t been near me 
for four whole days — nearly one hundred 
hours. Was it kind of you, Pip ? And I’ve 
been looking forward so much to your coming. 

Capt. G. — Have you ? 

Mrs. H. — You k?iow I have ! I’ve been as 
foolish as a schoolgirl about it. I made a 
little calendar and put it in my card-case, and 
every time the twelve o’clock gun went off I 
scratched out a square and said : — ‘‘ That 
brings me nearer to Pip. My Pip ! ” 


The Tents of Kedar 


39 

Capt. G. — {With an uneasy laugh.') What 
will Mackler think if you neglect him so ? 

Mrs. H. — And it hasn’t brought you nearer. 
You seem farther away than ever. Are you 
sulking about something ? I know your 
temper. 

Capt. G.— No. 

Mrs. H.— Have I grown old in the last few 
months, then ? {Reaches forward to bank of 
flowers for menu-card.) 

Partner on Left. — Allow me. {Hands 
menu-card. Mrs. H. keeps her arm at full 
stretch for three seconds.) 

Mrs. H. — {To partJier.) Oh, thanks. I 
didn’t see. {Turns right again.) Is anything 
in me changed at all ? 

Capt. G. — For Goodness’ sake go on with 
your dinner I You must eat something. Try 
one of those cutlet arrangements. {Aside.) 
And I fancied she had good shoulders, once 
upon a time I What an ass a man can make 
of himself 1 

Mrs. H. — {Helping herself to a paper frilly 
seven peas^ some stamped carrots and a spoonful 
of gravy.) That isn’t an answer. Tell we 
whether I have done anything. 

Capt. G. — {Aside.) If it isn’t ended here 
there will be a ghastly scene somewhere else. 
If only I’d written to her and stood the racket 
— at long range ! {To khitmatgar.) Han I 
Shnpkin do. {Aloud.) I’ll tell you later on. 

Mrs. H. — Tell me now. It must be some 


40 The Story of the Gadsbys 

foolish misunderstanding, and you know that 
there was to be nothing of that sort between 
us 1 We^ of all people in the world, can’t 
afford it. Is it the Vaynor man, and don’t 
you like to say so ? On my honor — 

Capt. G. — I haven’t given the Vaynor man 
a thought. 

Mrs. H. — But how d’you know that 1 
haven’t ? 

Capt. G. — (Aside.) Here’s my chance 
and may the Devil help me through with it. 
(Aloud and measuredlyl) Believe me, I do 
not care how often or how tenderly you think 
of the Vaynor man. 

Mrs. H. — I wonder if you mean that. — Oh, 
what is the good of squabbling and pretend- 
ing to misunderstand when you are only up 
for so short a time ? Pip, don’t be a stupid ! 

Follows a pause ^ during which he crosses his 
left leg over his right afid continues his din7ier. 

Capt. G. — (I?i answer to the thunderstorm 
in her eyes.) Corns — my worst. 

Mrs. H. — Upon my word, you are the 
very rudest man in the world ! I’ll never do 
it again. 

Capt. G. — (Aside.) No, I don’t think you 
will ; but I wonder what you will do before 
it’s all over. (To khitmatgarl) Thorah our 
Simpkbi do. 

Mrs. H. — Well 1 Haven’t you the grace 
to apologize, bad man ? 

Capt. G. — (Aside.) I mustn’t let it drift 


The Tents of Kedar 


41 

back now. Trust a woman for being as blind 
as a bat when she won’t see. 

Mrs. H. — I’m waiting : or would you like 
me to dictate a form of apology ? 

Capt. G. — (Desperately,) By all means 
dictate. 

Mrs. H. — (Lightly,) Very well. Rehearse 
your several Christian names after me and go 
on : — Profess my sincere repentance.” 

Capt. G. — ‘‘ Sincere repentance.” 

Mrs. H. — “ For having behaved — ” 

Capt. G. — (Aside,) At last ! I wish to 
Goodness she’d look away. ‘‘For having be- 
haved ” — as I have behaved, and declare that 
I am thoroughly and heartily sick of the 
whole business, and take this opportunity of 
making clear my intention of ending it, now, 
henceforward, and forever. (Aside,) If any 
one had told me I should be such a black- 
guard ... 1 

Mrs. H. — (Shaking a spoonful of potato- 
chips into her plate,) That’s not a pretty joke. 

Capt. G. — No. It’s a reality. (Aside,) 
I wonder if smashes of this kind are alv/ays so 
raw. 

Mrs. H. — Really, Pip, you’re getting more 
absurd every day. 

Capt. G. — I don’t think you quite under- 
stand me. Shall I repeat it ? 

Mrs. H. — No 1 For pity’s sake don’t do 
that. It’s too terrible, even in fun. 

Capt. G. — (Aside.) I’ll let her think it 


42 The Story of the Gadsbys 

over for a while. But I ought to be horse- 
whipped. 

Mrs. H. — I want to know what you meant 
by what you said just now. 

Capt. G. — Exactly what I said. No less. 

Mrs. H. — But what have I done to deserve 
it ? What have I done ? 

Capt. G. — (Aside.) If she only wouldn’t 
look at me. (Aloud and very slowly^ his eyes 
Oft his platel) D’you remember that evening 
in July, before the Rains broke, when you said 
that the end would have to come sooner or 
later . . . and you wondered for which of us 
it would come first ? 

Mrs. H. — Yes ! I was only joking. And 
you swore that, as long as there was breath in 
your body, it should never come. And I 
believed you. 

Capt. G. — (Fingering menu-car dl) Well, it 
has. That’s all. 

A long pause^ during which Mrs. H. hows 
her head and rolls the bread-twist into little 
pellets : G. stares at the oleanders. 

Mrs. H. — (Throwing hack her head a?id 
laughing naturally 1) They train us women 
well, don’t they, Pip ? 

Capt. G. — (Brutally^ touchmg shirt-stud.) 
So far as the expression goes. (Aside.) It 
isn’t in her nature to take things quietly. 
There’ll be an explosion yet. 

Mrs. H. — (With a shudder.) Thank you. 
B-but red Indians allow people to wriggle 


The Tents of Kedar 


43 


when they’re being tortured, I believe. 
(S/^^s fail from girdle and fans slowly: rim 
of fan level with chin.) 

Partner on Left. — Very close to-night, 
isn’t it ? You find it too much for you ? 

Mrs. H. — Oh, no, not in the least. But 
they really ought to have punkahs, even in 
your cool Naini Tal, oughtn’t they ? {Turns ^ 
dropping fan ajid raismg eyebrows.) 

Capt. G. — It’s all right. (Aside.) Here 
comes the storm ! 

Mrs. H. — (Her eyes 07i the tablecloth : fan 
ready in right hand.) It was very cleverly 
managed, Pip, and I congratulate you. You 
swore — you never contented yourself with 
merely saying a thing — you swore that, as 
far as lay in your power, you’d make my 
wretched life pleasant for me. And you’ve 
denied me the consolation of breaking down. 
I should have done it — indeed I should. A 
woman would hardly have thought of this 
refinement, my kind, considerate friend. 
(Fan-guard as before 1) You have explained 
things so tenderly and truthfully, too ! You 
haven’t spoken or written a word of warning, 
and you have let me believe in you till the 
last minute. You haven’t condescended to 
give me your reasoji yet. No 1 A woman 
could not have managed it half so well. Are 
there many men like you in the world ? 

Capt. G. — I’m sure I don’t know. (To 
khitmatgar.) Ohe 1 Simpkin do. 


44 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Mrs. H. — You call yourself a man of the 
world, don’t you ? Do men of the world 
behave like Devils when they do a woman 
the honor to get tired of her ? 

Capt. G. — I’m sure I don’t know. Don’t 
speak so loud ! 

Mrs. H. — Keep us respectable, O Lord, 
whatever happens ! Don’t be afraid of my 
compromising you. You’ve chosen your 
ground far too well, and I’ve been properly 
brought up. {Lowering fan.') Haven’t you 
a7ty pity, Pip, except for yourself ? 

Capt. G. — Wouldn’t it be rather im- 
pertinent of me to say that I’m sorry for 
you ? 

Mrs. H. — I think you have said it once 
or twice before. You’re growing very careful 
of my feelings. My God, Pip, I was a good 
woman once 1 You said I was. You’ve made 
me what I am. What are you going to do 
with me ? What are you going to do with 
me? Won’t you say that you are sorry? 
{Helps herself to iced asparagus,) 

Capt. G. — I am sorry for you, if you want 
the pity of such a brute as I am. I’m awfdy 
sorry for you. 

Mrs. H. — Rather tame for a man of the 
world. Do you think that that admission 
clears you ? 

Capt. G. — What can I do? I can only 
tell you what I think of myself. You can’t 
think worse than that ? 


The Tents of Kedar 


45 


Mrs. H. — Oh, yes, I can ! And now, 
will you tell me the reason of all this ? Re- 
morse ? Has Bayard been suddenly con- 
science-stricken ? 

Capt. G. — (Angrily y his eyes still lowered. ') 
No ! The thing has come to an end on 
my side. That’s all. Mafisch / 

Mrs. H. — “That’s all. Mafisch As 
though I were a Cairene Dragoman. You 
used to make prettier speeches. D’you re- 
member when you said . . . ? 

Capt. G. — For Heaven’s sake don’t bring 
that back ! Call me anything you like and 
I’ll admit it — 

Mrs. H. — But you don’t care to be re- 
minded of old lies ? If I could hope to hurt 
you one-tenth as much as you have hurt me 
to-night ... No, I wouldn’t — I couldn’t do 
it — liar though you are. 

Capt. G. — I’ve spoken the truth. 

Mrs. H. — My dear Sir, you flatter your- 
self. You have lied over the reason. Pip, 
remember that I know you as you don’t know 
yourself. You have been everything to me, 
though you are . . . {^Fan-guard.') Oh, what 
a contemptible Thing it is 1 And so you are 
merely tired of me ? 

Capt. G. — Since you insist upon my re- 
peating it — Yes. 

Mrs. H. — Lie the first. I wish I knew a 
coarser word. Lie seems so ineffectual in 
your case. The fire has just died out and 


46 The Story of the Gadsbys 

there is no fresh one ? Think for a minute, 
Pip, if you care whether I despise you more 
than I do. Simply Majisch^ is it ? 

Capt. G. — Yes. (Aside.) I think I deserve 
this. 

Mrs. H. — Lie number two. Before the 
next glass chokes you, tell me her name. 

Capt. G. — (Aside.) I’ll make her pay for 
dragging Minnie into the business 1 (Aloud.) 
Is it likely ? 

Mrs. H. — Very likely if you thought that 
it would flatter your vanity. You’d cry my 
name on the housetops to make people turn 
round. 

Capt. G. — I wish I had. There would 
have been an end of this business. 

Mrs. H. — Oh, no, there would not. . . . And 
so you were going to be virtuous and blase^ 
were you ? To come to me and say : — ‘‘ I’ve 
done with you. The incident is clo-osed.” I 
ought to be proud of having kept such a man 
so long. 

Capt. G. — (Aside.) It only remains to 
pray for the end of the dinner. (Aloud.) 
You know what I think of myself. 

Mrs. H. — As it’s the only person in the 
world you ever do think of, and as I know 
your mind thoroughly, I do. You want to get 
it all over and. . . . Oh, I can’t keep you back ! 
And you’re going — think of it. Pip — to throw 
me over for another woman. And you swore 
that all other women were . . . Pip, my Pip 1 


The Tents of Kedar 47 

She cayiH care for you as I do. Believe me, 
she can’t. Is it any one that I know ? 

Capt. G. — Thank Goodness it isn’t. 
{Aside,) I expected a cyclone, but not an 
earthquake. 

Mrs. H. — She cand ! Is there anything 
that I wouldn’t do for you — or haven’t done ? 
And to think that I should take this trouble 
over you, knowing what you are ! Do you 
despise me for it ? 

Capt. G. — ( Wiping his mouth to hide a smile.) 
Again ? It’s entirely a work of charity on 
your part. 

Mrs. H. — Ahhh ! But I have no right to 
resent it. . . . Is she better-looking than I ? 
Who was it said — ? 

Capt. G. — No — not that ! 

Mrs. H. — I’ll be more merciful than you 
were. Don’t you know that all women are 
alike ? 

Capt. G. — {Aside.) Then this is the ex- 
ception that proves the rule. 

Mrs. H. — All of them ! I’ll tell you any- 
thing you like. I will, upon my word. 1 They 
only want the admiration — from anybody — no 
matter who — anybody 1 But there is always 
one man that they care for more than any one 
else in the world, and would sacrifice all the 
others to. Oh, do listen 1 I’ve kept the 
Vaynor man trotting after me like a poodle, 
and he believes that he is the only man I am 
interested in. I’ll tell you what he said to me. 


48 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Capt. G. — Spare him. (Aside,) I wonder 
what /lis version is. 

Mrs. H. — He’s been waiting for me to look 
at him all through dinner. Shall I do it, and 
you can see what an idiot he looks ? 

Capt. G. — ‘‘ But what imports the nomina- 
tion of this gentleman ? ” 

Mrs. H. — Watch ! (Sends a glafice to the 
Vayjior man^ who tries vamly to cofnbine a 
mouthful of ice-puddings a smirk of self -satisfac- 
tions Cl glare of intense devotions and the stolidity 
of a British dining couiitenafice.) 

Capt G. — (Critically,) He doesn’t look 
pretty. Why didn’t you wait till the spoon 
was out of his mouth ? 

Mrs. H. — To amuse you. She’ll make an 
exhibition of you as I’ve made of him ; and 
people will laugh at you. Oh, Pip, can’t you 
see that ? It’s as plain as the noonday sun. 
You’ll be trotted about and told lies, and 
made a fool of like the others. I never made 
a fool of you, did I ? 

Capt. G. — (Aside,) What a clever little 
woman it is ! 

Mrs. H. — Well, what have you to say ? 

Capt. G. — I feel better. 

Mrs. H. — Yes, I suppose so, after I have 
come down to your level. I couldn’t have 
done it if I hadn’t cared for you so much. I 
have spoken the truth. 

Capt. G. — It doesn’t alter the situation. 

Mrs. H. — (Passionately,) Then she has 


The Tents of Kedar 


49 


said that she cares for you ! Don’t believe 
her, Pip. It’s a lie — as black as yours to me ! 

Capt. G. — Ssssteady ! I’ve a notion that a 
friend of yours is looking at you. 

Mrs. H. — He ! I hate him. He introduced 
you to me. 

Capt. G. — (Aside.) And some people 
would like women to assist in making the 
laws. Introduction to imply condonement. 
(Aloud.) Well, you see, if you can remember 
so far back as that, I couldn’t, in common 
politeness, refuse the offer. 

Mrs. H. — In common politeness ! We have 
got beyond that ! 

Capt. G. — (Aside.) Old ground means 
fresh trouble. (Aloud.) On my honor — 

Mrs. H. — Your what ? Ha, ha ! 

Capt. G. — Dishonor, then. She’s not what 
you imagine. I meant to — 

Mrs. H. — Don’t tell me anything about 
her ! She won't care for you, and when you 
come back, after having made an exhibition 
of yourself, you’ll find me occupied with — 

Capt. G. — (Lisolently.) You couldn’t while 
I am alive. (Aside.) If that doesn’t bring 
her pride to her rescue, nothing will. 

Mrs. H. — (Drawing herself up.) Couldn’t 
doit? I? (Softenmg.) You’re right. I 
don’t believe I could — though you are what 
you are — a coward and a liar in grain. 

Capt. G. — It doesn’t hurt so much after 
your little lecture — with demonstrations. 

4 


5o The Story of the Gadsbys 

Mrs. H. — One mass of vanity 1 Will 
nothing ever touch you in this life ? There 
must be a Hereafter if it’s only for the benefit 
of . . . But you will have it all to yourself. 

Capt. G. — ( Under his eyebrows,) Are you 
so certain of that ? 

Mrs. H. — I shall have had mine in this 
life ; and it will serve me right. 

Capt. G. — But the admiration that you 
insisted on so strongly a moment ago ? (Aside.) 
Oh, I am a brute 1 

Mrs. H. — (J^iercely). Will that console me 
for knowing that you will go to her with the 
same words, the same arguments, and the — the 
same pet names you used to me ? And if she 
cares for you, you two will laugh over my story. 
Won’t that be punishment heavy enough even 
for me — even for me ? . . . And it’s all use- 
less. That’s another punishment. 

Capt. G. — (Feebly.) Oh, come I I’m not 
so low as you think. 

Mrs. H. — Not now, perhaps, but you will 
be. Oh, Pip, if a woman flatters your vanity, 
there’s nothing on earth that you would not tell 
her ; and no meanness that you would not do. 
Have I known you so long without knowing 
that ? 

Capt. G. — If you can trust me in nothing 
else — and I don’t see why I should be trusted 
— you can count upon my holding my tongue. 

Mrs. H. — If you denied everything you’ve 
said this evening and declared it was all in fun 


The Tents of Kedar 


51 


{a long pause), I^d trust you. Not otherwise. 
All I ask is, don’t tell her my name. Please 
don’t. A man might forget : a woman never 
would. {Looks up table and sees hostess begin- 
nijig to collect eyes.) So it’s all ended, through 
no fault of mine. . . . Haven’t I behaved 
beautifully? I’ve accepted your dismissal, 
and you managed it as cruelly as you could, 
and I have made you respect my sex, haven’t 
I? {Arranging gloves and fa7i.) I only pray 
that she’ll know you some day as I know you 
now. I wouldn’t be you then, for I think even 
your conceit will be hurt. I hope she’ll pay 
you back the humiliation you’ve brought on 
me. I hope. ... No. I don’t. \ca7idg\v^ 
you up 1 I must have something to look for- 
ward to or I shall go crazy. When it’s all 
over, come back to me, come back to me, and 
you’ll find that you’re my Pip still ! 

Capt. G. — {Very clearlyi) ’False move, 
and you pay for it. It’s a girl I 

Mrs. H. — {Rising.) Then it was true! 
They said . . . but I wouldn’t insult you by 
asking. A girl 1 I was a girl not very long 
ago. Be good to her Pip. I dare say she 
believes in you. 

Goes out with an uncertam STnile. He 
watches her throtigh the door, a7id settles mto 
a chair as the me7i redistribute tJmnselves. 

Capt. G. — Now, if there is any Power who 
looks after this world, will He kindly tell me 
what I have done ? {Reachmg out for the 
claret, a7id half aloud.) What have I done? 


WITH ANY AMAZEMENT. 


“ And are not afraid with any amazement.” 

Marriage Se^'vice, 

Scene. — A hachelor^s bedroom — toilet-table ar- 
ranged with unnatural neatness. Captain 
Gadsby asleep and snoring heavily, Time^ 
10.30. A. M. — a glorious autumn day at Simla, 
Enter delicately Captain Mafflin of Gadsbfs 
regiment. Looks at sleeper^ and shakes his 
head murmuring Poor Gaddy.'*'' Per- 
forms violent fantasia with hair-brushes on 
chair-back, 

Capt. M. — Wake up, my sleeping beauty ! 
{Howls.) 

“ Uprouse ye, then, my merry merry men ! 

It is our opening day ! 

It is our opening da-ay ! ” 

Gaddy, the little dicky-birds have been bill- 
ing and cooing for ever so long ; and I’m 
here ! 

Capt. G. — {Sittmg up and yawnmg.) 
’Mornin’. This is awf’ly good of you, old 
fellow. Most awf’ly good of you. Don’t 
know what I should do without you. ’Pon 

52 


With Any Amazement 53 

my soul, I don’t. ’Haven’t slept a wink all 
night. 

Capt. M. — I didn’t get in till half-past 
eleven. ’Had a look at you then, and you 
seemed to be sleeping as soundly as a con- 
demned criminal. 

Capt. G. — Jack, if you want to make those 
disgustingly worn-out jokes, you ’d better go 
away. ( With portentous gravity,) It’s the 
happiest day in my life. 

Capt. M. — (^Chuckling grimly,) Not by 
a very long chalk, my son. You’re going 
through some of the most refined torture 
you’ve ever known. But be calm, /am with 
you. ’Shun. Dress ! 

Capt. G.— Ehl Wha-at? 

Capt. M. — Do you suppose that you are 
your own master for the next twelve hours ? 
If you of course . . . (Mahes for the doori) 

Capt. G. — No 1 For Goodness’ sake, old 
man, don’t do thatl You’ll see me through, 
won’t you? I’ve been mugging up that 
beastly drill, and can’t remember a line of it. 

Capt. M. — {Overhauling GJs uniforml ) — 
Go and tub. Don’t bother me. I’ll give you 
ten minutes to dress in. 

Inte'Tval,) filled by the noise as of a healthy 
grampus splashing in the bath-room, 

Capt. G. — {Emerging from dressing-room,) 
What time is it ? 

Capt. M. — Nearly eleven. 

Capt. G. — Five hours more. O Lord I 


54 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Capt. M. — (Aside.) ’First sign of funk, 
that. ’Wonder if it’s going to spread. 
(Aloud.) Come along to breakfast. 

Capt. G. — I can’t eat anything. I don’t 
want any breakfast. 

Capt. M. — (Aside.) So early! (Aloud.) 
Captain Gadsby, I order you to eat breakfast, 
and a dashed good breakfast, too. None of 
your bridal airs and graces with me 1 

Leads G. downstairs^ and stands over him 
while he eats two chops. 

Capt. G. — ( Who has looked at his watch 
thrice in the last Jive minutes.) What time 
is it ? 

Capt. M. — Time to come for a walk. 
Light up. 

Capt. G. — I haven’t smoked for ten days, 
and I won’t now. (Takes cheroot which M. 
has cut for him^ and blows smoke through his 
nose luxuriously.) We aren’t going down the 
Mall, are we ? 

Capt. M. — (Aside.) They’re all alike in 
these stages. (Aloud.) No, my Vestal. 
We’re going along the quietest road we can find. 

Capt. G. — Any chance of seeing Her ? 

Capt. M. — Innocent I No I Come along, 
and, if you want me for the final obsequies, 
don’t cut my eye out with your stick. 

Capt. G.~(^Spinning rou7id.) I say, isn’t 
She the dearest creature that ever walked? 
What’s the time ? What comes after wilt 
thou take this woman ? ” 


With Any Amazement 55 

Capt. M. — You go for the ring. Recollect 
it’ll be on the top of my right-hand little 
finger, and just be careful how you draw it off, 
because I shall have the Verger’s fees some- 
where in my glove. 

Capt. G. — {Walking forward hastily ,') — 

D the Verger ! Come along! It’s past 

twelve, and I haven’t seen Her since yester- 
day evening. {Spinning round again,) She’s 
an absolute angel. Jack, and she’s a dashed 
deal too good for me. Look here, does she 
come up the aisle on my arm, or how ? 

Capt. M. — If I thought that there was the 
least chance of your remembering anything 
for two consecutive minutes, I’d tell you. 
Stop passaging about like that 1 

Capt. G. — {Halting in the middle of the 
road,) I say. Jack. 

Capt. M. — Keep quiet for another ten 
minutes if you can, you lunatic, and walk ! 

The two tramp at five miles an hour for 
fifteen minutes, 

Capt. G. — What’s the time ? How about 
that cursed wedding-cake and the slippers ? 
They don’t throw ’em about in church do 
they ? 

Capt. M. — In-variably. The Padre leads 
off with his boots. 

Capt. G. — Confound your silly soul I Don’t 
make fun of me. I can’t stand it, and I 
won’t I 

Capt. M. — {Untroubled,) So-000, old 


56 The Story of the Gadsbys 

horse ! You’ll have to sleep for a couple of 
hours this afternoon. 

Capt. G. — (^Spinning round,) I’m not 
going to be treated like a dashed child. 
Understand that 1 

Capt. M. — (Aside.) Nerves gone to fiddle- 
strings. What a day we’re having. (Tenderly 
putting his hand on G.^s shoulder.) My 
David, how long have you known this Jona- 
than ? Would I come up here to make a fool 
of you — after all these years ? 

Capt. G. — (Penitently.) I know, I know. 
Jack — ^but I’m as upset as I can be. Don’t 
mind what I say. Just hear me run through 
the drill and see if I’ve got it all right : 

“ To have and to hold for better or worse, 
as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever 
shall be, world without end so help me, 
God. — Amen.” 

Capt. M. — (Suffocatmg with suppressed 
laughter.) Yes. That’s about the gist of it. 
I’ll prompt if you get into a hat. 

Capt. G. (Earnestly.) Yes, you’ll stick 
by me. Jack, won’t you? I’m awf’ly happy, 
but I don’t mind telling that I’m in a blue 
funk I 

Capt. M. — (Gravely.) Are you? I should 
never have noticed it. You don’t look 
like it. 

Capt. G. — Don’t I? That’s all right. 
(Spinning round.) On my soul and honor, 
Jack, She’s the sweetest little angel that ever 


With Any, Amazement 57 

came down from the sky. There isn’t a 
woman on earth fit to speak to Her ! 

Capt. M. — (Aside) — And this is old Gaddy ! 
(Aloud) Go on if it relieves you. 

Capt. G. — You can laugh ! That’s all you 
wild asses of bachelors are fit for. 

Capt. M. — (Drawling,) You never would 
wait for the troop to come up. You aren’t 
quite married yet, y’ know. 

Capt. G. — Ugh 1 That reminds me, I 
don’t believe 1 shall be able to get into my 
boots. Let’s go home and try ’em on ! 
(Hurries forward^) 

Capt. M. — ’Wouldn’t be in your shoes for 
anything that Asia has to offer. 

Capt. G. — (Spinning round,) That just 
shows your hideous blackness of soul — ^your 
dense stupidity — your brutal narrow-minded- 
ness. There’s only one fault about you. 
You’re the best of good fellows, and I don’t 
know what I should have done without you, 
but — you aren’t married. ( Wags his head 
gravely.) Take a wife, Jack. 

Capt. M. — (With a face like a wall,) 
Ya-as. Whose for choice ? 

Capt. G. — If you’re going to be a black- 
guard, I’m going on . . • What’s the time ? 
Capt. M. (Hums) — 

“ An’ since it was very clear we drank only ginger-beer, 
Faith, there must ha’ been some stings in the ginger.” 

Come back, you maniac. I’m going to 


58 The Story of the Gadsbys 

take you home, and you’re going to lie down. 

Capt. G. — What on earth do I want to lie 
down for ? 

Capt M. — Give me a light from your cheroot 
and see. 

Capt. G. — (^Watching cheroot-hiitt qiciver 
like a tuning-forkl) Sweet state I’m ini 

Capt. M. — You are. I’ll get you a peg and 
you’ll go to sleep. 

They retur?i and M, compounds a four- 
finger peg, 

Capt. G. — O, bus / bus ! It’ll make me as 
drunk as an owl. 

Capt. M. — ’Curious thing, ’twont have the 
slightest effect on you. Drink it off, chuck 
yourself down there, and go to bye-bye. 

Capt. G. — It’s absurd. I shan’t sleep. I 
know I shan’t 1 

Falls into heavy doze at end of seve7i minutes, 
Capt. M. watches him tenderly, 

Capt. M. — Poor old Gaddy ! I’ve seen a 
few turned off before, but never one who 
went to the gallows in this condition. ’Can’t 
tell how it affects ’em, though. It’s the 
thoroughbreds that sweat when they’re backed 
into double-harness. . . . And that’s the 
man who went through the guns at Amdhe- 
ran like a devil possessed of devils. (Zea^is 
over G.) But this is worse than the guns, old 
pal — worse than the guns, isn’t it ? (G. turns 

in his sleepy and M. touches him clumsily oji the 
foreheadl) Poor, dear, old Gaddy 1 Going 


With Any Amazement 59 

like the rest of ’em — going like the rest of 
’em . . . Friend that sticketh closer than a 
brother . . . eight years ! Dashed bit of a 
slip of a girl . . . eight weeks 1 And — 
where’s your friend. (Smokes disconsolately till 
church dock strikes three,) 

Capt. M. — Up with youl Get into your 
kit. 

-Capt. G. — Already ? Isn’t it too soon ? 
Hadn’t I better have a shave ? 

Capt. M. — No I You’re all right. (Aside,) 
He’d chip his chin to pieces. 

Capt. G. — What’s the hurry ? 

Capt. M. — You’ve got to be there first. 

Capt. G. — To be stared at ? 

Capt. M. — Exactly. You’re part of the 
show. Where’s the burnisher ? Your spurs 
are in a shameful state. 

Capt. G. — {^Gruffly,) Jack, I be damned 
if you shall do that for me. 

Capt. M. — (More gruffly,) Dry up and 
get dressed ! If I choose to clean your spurs, 
you’re under my orders. 

Capt. G. dresses, M. follows suit, 

Capt. M. — (Critically^ walking round,) 
M’yes, you’ll do. Only don’t look so like a 
criminal. Ring, gloves, fees — that’s all right 
for me. Let your mustache alone. Now, if 
the tats are ready, we’ll go. 

Capt. G. — (Nervously.) It’s much too 
soon. Let’s light up 1 Let’s have a peg I 
Let’s — 


6o The Story of the Gadsbys 

Capt. M. — Let^s make bally asses of our- 
selves. 

Bells. — ( Without.') 

Good — peo — pie — aU 
To prayers — we call. 

Capt. M. — There go the bells 1 Come on 
— unless you’d rather not. {They ride off,) 
Bells. — 

We honor the King 
And Bride’s joy do bring— 

Good tidings we tell 
And ring the Dead’s knell. 

Capt. G. — {Dismounting at the door of the 
Churchi) I say, aren’t we much too soon ? 
There are no end of people inside. I say, 
aren’t we much too late ? Stick by me, Jack ! 
What the devil do I do ? 

Capt. M. — Strike an attitude at the head 
of the aisle and wait for Her. (G. groans as 
M. wheels him into position before three hundred 
eyes . ) 

Capt. M. — {Imploringly.) Gaddy, if you 
love me, for pity’s sake, for the Honor of the 
Regiment, stand up ! Chuck yourself into 
your uniform ! Look like a man ! I’ve got 
to speak to the Padre a minute. (G. breaks 
into a gentle perspiration.) If you wipe your 
face I’ll never be your best man again. Stand 
up ! (G. trembles visibly.) 

Capt. M. — (Returning.) She’s coming 


With Any Amazement 6i 

now. Look out when the music starts. 
There’s the organ beginning to clack. 

Bride steps out of ^rickshaw at Church door. 
G. catches a glimpse of her and takes heart. 

Organ. — {Diapason and bourdonl) 

The Voice that breathed o’er Eden, 

That earliest marriage day, 

The primal marriage blessing, 

It hath not passed away. 

Capt. M. — ( Watching G.) By Jove ! He 
is looking well. Didn’t think he had it in 
him* 

Capt. G. — How long does this hymn go on 
for? 

Capt. M. — It will be over directly. {Anx^^ 
iouslyl) Beginning to bleach and gulp? Hold 
on, Gaddy, and think o’ the Regiment. 

Capt. G. — {Measuredly.') I say, there’s a 
big brown lizard crawling up that wall. 

Capt. M. — My Sainted Mother ! The last 
stage of collapse I 

Bride comes up to left of altar ^ lifts her eyes 
once to G., who is suddenly smitten mad, 

Capt. G. — {To himself again and again,) 
Little Featherweight’s a woman — a woman I 
And I thought she was a little girl. 

Capt. M. — (In a whisper,) From the halt 
— inward wheel, 

Capt. G. obeys mechanically and the cere* 
mony proceeds. 


62 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Padre. — . . . only unto her as long as ye 
both shall live ? 

Capt. G. — {His throat useless,) Ha — 

hmmm ! 

Capt. M. — Say you will or you won’t. 
There’s no second deal here. 

Bf'ide gives response with perfect coolness^ ajid 
is given away by the father, 

Capt. G. — {Thinking to show his learning,) 
Jack, give me away now, quick ! 

Capt. M. — You’ve given yourself away 
quite enough. Her right hand, man 1 Re- 
peat ! Repeat ! “ Theodore Philip.” Have 

you forgotten your own name ? 

Capt. G. stumbles through Affirmation^ which 
Bride repeats without a tremor, 

Capt. M. — Now the ring 1 Follow the 
Padre 1 Don’t pull off my glove ! Here it 
is ! Great Cupid, he’s found his voice ! 

G. repeats Troth in a voice to be heard to the 
e7td of the Church and turns 07i his heel, 

Capt. M. — {Desperately i) Rein back I 

Back to your troop ! ’Tisn’t half legal yet. 

Padre. — . . • joined together let no man 
put asunder. 

Capt. G. paralyzed with fear^ jibs after 
Blessing, 

Capt. M. — {Quickly.) On your own front 
— one length. Take her with you. I don’t 
come. You’ve nothing to say. (Capt. G. 
jmgles 7ip to alta7'i) 

Capt. M. — {Bi a piercmg rattle mea7it to be 


With Any Amazement 63 

a whisper,') Kneel, you stiff-necked ruffian ! 
Kneel ! 

Padre. — . . . whose daughters ye are, so 
long as ye do well and are not afraid with any^ 
amazement. 

Capt. M. — Dismiss 1 Break off ! Left 

wheel ! 

All troop to vestry. They sign, 

Capt. M. — Kiss Her, Gaddy. 

Capt. G. — (^Rubbing the mk mto his glove,) 
Eh ! Wha— at ? 

Capt. M. — (^Taking one pace 'to Bride,) 
If you don’t, I shall. 

Capt. G. — {^Biterposmg a7i arm,) Not 
this journey 1 

General kissing ^ in which Capt. G. is pur- 
sued by unknow 7 i female, 

Capt. G. — {^Faintly to M.) This is Hades 1 
Can I wipe my face now ? 

Capt. M. — My responsibility has ended. 
Better ask Missis Gadsby. 

Capt. G. winces as if shot and procession is 
Mendels sohned out of Church to paternal roof,, 
where usual tortures take place over the wed- 
ding-cake, 

Capt. M. — (^At table,) Up with you, 
Gaddy. They expect a speech. 

Capt. G. — (After three minutes'* agony,) 
Ha — hmmm. (Thunders of applause i) 

Capt. M. — Doocid good, for a first attempt. 
Now go and change your kit while Mama 
is weeping over — “ the Missus.” (Capt. G. 


64 The Story of the Gadsbys 

disappears. Capt. M. starts up tearing his 
hair.) It’s not half legal. Where are the 
shoes ? Get an ayah. 

Ayah. — Missie Captain Sahib done gone 
band karo all the jutis. 

Capt. M. — {^Brandishing scabharded szvordi) 
Woman, produce those shoes ! Some one 
lend me a bread-knife. We mustn’t crack 
Gaddy’s head more than it is. {^Slices heel 
off white satin slipper and puts slipper up his 
sleeve.) Where is the Bride? (fTo the com- 
pa7iy at large. Be tender with that rice. It’s 
a heathen custom. Give me the big bag. 

Bride slips out quietly into 'rickshaw afid de- 
parts towards the simset. 

Capt. M. — the open.) Stole away, by 
Jove ! So much the worse for Gaddy ! Here 
he is. Now, Gaddy, this’ll be livelier than 
Amdheran 1 Where’s your horse ? 

Capt. G. — {Furiously^ seeing that the women 

are out of earshot.) Where the is my 

Wife ? 

Capt. M. — Half-way to Mahasu by this 
time. You’ll have to ride like Young Loch- 
invar. 

Horse comes round on his hind legs ; refuses to 
let G. handle him. 

Capt. G. — Oh, you will, will you ? Get 
round, you brute — you hog — you beast I 
Get round! 

Wrenches horse's head over^ nearly breaking 


With Any Amazement 65 

lower jaw ; swings himself into saddle^ and sends 
ho7ne both spurs in the midst of a spattering gale 
of Best Patiia. 

Capt. M. — For your life and your love — 
ride, Gaddy ! — And God bless you 1 

Throws half a pound of rice at G., who dis- 
appears^ bowed forward o?t the saddle^ in a 
cloud of sunlit dust, 

I Capt. M. — I’ve lost old Gaddy. {Lights 
pfgarette and strolls off^ singing absently) : — 

“ You may carve it on his tombstone, you may cut it on 
his card, 

That a young man married is a young man 
marred ! ” 

j Miss Deercourt. — {From her horse.) 
keally, Captain Mafflin ! You are more plain- 
ppoken than polite ! 

I Capt. M. — (Aside.) They say marriage 
Is like cholera. Wonder who’ll be the next 
Wctim. 

I White satin slipper slides from his sleeve and 
falls at his feet. Left wondering^ 


CURTAIN. 


THE GARDEN OF EDEN. 


“ And ye shall be as — Gods ! ” 

Scene. — Thymy grass-plot at back of the* 
Mahasu ddkPmigalow^ overlooking little 
wooded valley, O71 the left^ glimpse of the 
Dead Forest of Fagoo ; o?i the rights Simla 
Hills, In backgroufid^ Ime of the Sfiows, 
Capt. Gadsby, now one week a husband^^ 
is smoking the pipe of peace on a rug in the 
sunshine, Ba^ijo and tobaccopouch on rug,^ 
Overhead^ the Fagoo eagles, Mrs. G. comes\ 
out of bungalow, ! 

Mrs. G. — My husband I 
, Capt. G. — (Lazily ^ with intense enjoyment , ) 
Eh, wha-at ? Say that again. 

Mrs. G. — I’ve written to Mama and told 
her that we shall be back on the 17th. 

Capt. G. — Did you give her my love ? 
Mrs. G. — No, I kept all that for myself. 
(^Sitting down by his side,) I thought you 
wouldn’t mind. 

Capt. G. — ( With mock sternness.) I ob- 
ject awf’ly. How did you know that it wan 
yours to keep ? 

Mrs. G. — I guessed, Phil. 

66 


The Garden of Eden 67 

Capt. G. — {Rapturously,') Lit-tle Feather- 
weight ! 

Mrs. G. — I wonU be called those sporting 
pet names, bad boy. 

Capt. G. — You’ll be called anything I 
choose. Has it ever occurred to you, Madam, 
that you are my Wife ? 

Mrs. G. — It has. I haven’t ceased won- 
dering at it yet. 

Capt. G. — Nor I. It seems so strange ; and 
yet, somehow, it doesn’t. {Confidently,) You 
see, it could have been no one else. 

Mrs. G. — (Softly,) No. No one else — 
for me or for you. It must have been all 
arranged from the beginning. Phil, tell me 
again what made you care for me. 

Capt. G. — How could I help it ? You 
were you, you know. 

Mrs. G. — Did you ever want to help it? 
Speak the truth ! 

Capt. G. — (A twinkle m his eye,) I did, 
darling, just at the first. But only at the 
very first. (Chuckles,) I called you — stoop 
low and I’ll whisper — ‘‘a little beast.” Ho 1 
ho ! hoi 

Mrs. G. — (Taking him by the mustache and 
making him sit up,) “A — little — beast!” 
Stop laughing over your crime ! And yet you 
had the — the — awful cheek to propose to 
me 1 

Capt. G. — I’d changed my mind then. 
And you weren’t a little beast any more. 


68 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Mrs. G. — Thank you, Sir ! And when was 
I ever? 

Capt. G. — Never I But that first day, when 
you gave me tea in that peach-colored muslin 
gown thing, you looked — you did indeed, 
dear — such an, absurd little mite. And I 
didn’t know what to say to you. 

Mrs. G. — ( Twisting mustache^ So you said 
‘‘ Little beast.” Upon my word. Sir ! I called 
yon a ‘‘ Crrrreature,” but I wish now I had 
called you something worse. 

Capt. G. — ( Very meekly. ) I apologize, but 
you’re hurting me awf’ly. (^Interludel) You’re 
welcome to torture me again on those terms. 

Mrs. G. — Oh, why did you let me do it ? 

Capt. G. — (^Looking across valley.) No 
reason in particular, but — if it amused you or 
did you any good — you might — wipe those 
dear little boots of yours on me. 

Mrs. G. — {Stretching out her hands.) 
Don’t 1 Oh, don’t ! Philip, my King, please 
don’t talk like that. It’s how /feel. You’re 
so much too good for me. So much too 
good ! 

Capt. G. — Me ! I’m not fit to put my arm 
round you. {Puts it roimd.) 

Mrs. G. — Yes, you are. But I — what have 
I ever done ? 

Capt. G. — Given me a wee bit of your 
heart, haven’t you, my Queen ? 

Mrs. G. — That's nothing. Any one would 
do that. They cou — couldn’t help it. 


The Garden of Eden 69 

Capt. G. — Pussy, you’ll make me horribly 
conceited. Just when I was beginning to feel 
so humble, too. 

Mrs. G. — Humble ! I don’t believe it’s in 
your character. 

Capt. G. — What do you know of my char- 
acter, Impertinence ? 

Mrs. G. — Ah, but I shall, sha’n’t I, Phil ? 
I shall have time in all the years and years to 
come, to know everything about you ; and 
there will be no secrets between us. 

Capt. G. — Little witch ! I believe you 
know me thoroughly already. 

Mrs. G. — I think I can guess. You’re 
selfish ? 

Capt. G. — Yes. 

Mrs. G. — Foolish? 

Capt. G. — Very, 

Mrs. G.— And a dear ? 

Capt. G. — That is as my lady pleases. 

Mrs. G. — Then your lady is pleased. {A 
pause,) D’you know that we’re two solemn, 
serious, grown-up people — 

Capt. G. — {Tilting her straw hat over her 
eyes.) You grown up 1 Pooh! You’re a 
baby. 

Mrs. G. — And we’re talking nonsense. 

Capt. G. — Then let’s go on talking non- 
sense. I rather like it. Pussy, I’ll tell you a 
secret. Promise not to repeat ? 

Mrs. G. — ’Ye — es. Only to you. 

Capt. G. — I love you. 


7o The Story of the Gadsbys 

Mrs. G. — Re-ally ! For how long ? 

Capt. G. — For ever and ever. 

Mrs. G. — That's a long time. 

Capt. G. — Think so ? It's the shortest I 
can do with. 

Mrs. G. — You're getting quite clever. 

Capt. G. — I'm talking to you, 

Mrs. G. — Prettily turned. Hold up your 
stupid old head and I'll pay you for it ! 

Capt. G. — {Affecting supreme contempt P) 
Take it yourself if you want it. 

Mrs. G. — I've a great mind to . . . and I 
will 1 {lakes it,, and is repaid with interest.) 

Capt. G. — Little Featherweight, it's my 
opinion that we are a couple of idiots.) 

Mrs. G. — We're the only two sensible 
people in the world ! Ask the eagle. He's 
coming by. 

Capt. G. — Ah I I dare say he's seen a 
good many ‘‘ sensible people " at Mahasu. 
They say that those birds live for ever so 
long. 

Mrs. G. — How long ? 

Capt. G. — A hundred and twenty years. 

Mrs. G. — A hundred and twenty years 1 
O-oh ! And in a hundred and twenty years 
where will these two sensible people be ? 

Capt. G. — What does it matter so long as 
we are together now ? 

Mrs. G. — {Looking round the horizon.) 
Yes. Only you and I — I and you — in the 
whole wide, wide world until the end. {Sees 


The Garden of Eden 


71 

the Ihie of the Snows,) How big and quiet 
the hills look ! D’you think they care for 
us ? 

Capt. G. — ’Can’t say I’ve consulted ’em 
particularly. I care, and that’s enough for 
me. 

Mrs. G. — [Drawing nearer to him.) Yes, 
now . . . but afterwards. What’s that little 
black blur on the Snows ? 

Capt. G. — A snowstorm, forty miles away. 
You’ll see it move, as the wind carries it 
across the face of that spur, ami then it will 
be all gone. 

Mrs. G. — And then it will be all gone. 
[Shivers.) 

Capt. G. — (Anxiously.) ’Not chilled, pet, 
are you ? ’Better let me get your cloak. 

Mrs. G. — No. Don’t leave me, Phil. 
Stay here. I believe 1 am afraid. Oh, why 
are the hills so horrid! Phil, promise me, 
promise me that you’ll always, always love 
me. 

Capt. G. — What’s the trouble, darling ? 
I can’t promise any more than I have; but 
I’ll promise that again and again if you like. 

Mrs. G. — (Her head on his shoulder.) 
Say it, then — say it ! N-no — don’t ! The 
— the — eagles would laugh. (Recovering.) 
My husband, you’ve married a little goose. 

Capt. G. — (Very tenderly.) Have I? 
I am content whatever she is, so long as she 
is mine. 


72 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Mrs. G. — {Quickly,) Because she is 

yours or because she is me mineself ? 

Capt. G. — Because she is both. {Pit- 
eously,) I’m not clever, dear, and I don’t 
think I can make myself understood properly. 

Mrs. G. — I understand. Pip, will you 
tell me something ? 

Capt. G. — Anything you like. {Aside,) 
I wonder what’s coming now. 

Mrs. G. — {Haltingly^ her eyes lowered.) 
You told me once in the old days — ^centuries 
and centuries ago — that you had been en- 
gaged before. I didn’t say anything — tlie^t, 

Capt. G. — {Innocently,) Why not? 

Mrs. G. — {Raising her eyes to his,) 
Because — because I was afraid of losing you, 
my heart. But now — tell about it — please, 

Capt. G. — There’s nothing to tell. I was 
awf’ly old then — nearly two and twenty — 
and she was quite that. 

Mrs. G. — That means she was older than 
you. I shouldn’t like her to have been 
younger. Well ? 

Capt. G. — Well, I fancied myself in love 
and raved about a bit, and — oh, yes, by Jove 1 
I made up poetry. Ha 1 Ha ! 

Mrs. G. — You never wrote any for me ! 
What happened ? 

Capt. G. — I came out here, and the whole 
thing went phut. She wrote to say that there 
had been a mistake, and then she married. 

Mrs. G. — Did she care for you much ? 


The Garden of Eden 73 

Capt. G. — No. At least she didn’t show 
it as far as I remember. 

Mrs. G. — As far as you remember! Do 
you remember her name ? {Hears it and bows 
her head,) Thank you, my husband. 

Capt. G. — Who but you had the right? 
Now, Little Featherweight, have you ever 
been mixed up in any dark and dismal tragedy ? 

Mrs. G. — If you call me Mrs. Gadsby, 
p’raps I’ll tell. 

Capt. G. — ( Throwing Parade rasp into his 
voice,) Mrs. Gadsby, confess 1 

Mrs. G. — Good Heavens, Phil I I never 
knew that you could speak in that terrible 
voice. 

Capt. G. — You don’t know half my ac- 
complishments yet. Wait till we are settled 
in the Plains, and I’ll show you howl bark at 
my troop. You were going to say, darling ? 

Mrs. G. — I — I don’t like to, after that 
voice. {Tremulously,) Phil, never you dare 
to speak to me in that tone, whatever I may do 1 

Capt. G. — My poor little love 1 Why, 
you’re shaking all over. I am so sorry. Of 
course I never meant to upset you. Don’t 
tell me anything. I’m a brute. 

Mrs. G. — No, you aren’t, and I will tell. 
. . . There was a man. 

Capt. G. — {Lightly 1) Was there ? Lucky 
man 1 

Mrs. G. — {In a whisper,) And I thought 
I cared for him. 


74 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Capt. G. — Still luckier man ! Well ? 

Mrs. G. — And I thought I cared for him — ^ 
and I didn’t — and then you came — and I 
cared for you very, very much indeed. That’s 
all. {Face hidden.) You aren’t angry, are you ? 

Capt. G. — Angry? Not in the least. 
(Aside.) Good Lord, what have I done to 
deserve this angel ? 

Mrs. G. — (Aside.) And he never asked 
for the name ! How funny men. are ! But 
perhaps it’s as well. 

Capt. G. — That man will go to heaven 
because you once thought you cared for him. 
’Wonder if you’ll ever drag me up there ? 

Mrs. G. — (Firm/y.) ’Sha’n’t go if you 

don’t. 

Capt. G. — Thanks. I say. Pussy, I don’t 
Lnow much about your religious beliefs. You 
were brought up to believe in a heaven and 
all that, weren’t you ? 

Mrs. G. — Yes. But it was a pincushion 
heaven, with hymn-books in all the pews. 

Capt. G. — ( Wagging his head with intense 
conviction^ Never mind. There is a pukka 
heaven. 

Mrs. G. — Where do you bring that mes- 
sage from, my prophet ? 

Capt. G. — Here ! Because we care for 
each other. So it’s all right. 

Mrs. G. — (As a troop of langurs crash 
through the branches 1) So it’s all right. But 
Darwin says that we came from those ! 


The Garden of Eden 75 

Capt. G. — {Placidly.') Ah ! Darwin was 
never in love with an angel. That settles it. 
Sstt, you brutes 1 Monkeys, indeed ! You 
shouldn’t read those books. 

Mrs. G. — (^Folding her hands,') If it 
pleases my Lord the King to issue proclama- 
tion. 

Capt. G. — Don’t, dear one. There are 
no orders between us. Only I’d rather you 
didn’t. They lead to nothing, and bother 
people’s heads. 

Mrs. G. — Like your first engagement. 

Capt. G. — ( With an immense calm,) That 
was a necessary evil and led to you. Are 
yon nothing? 

Mrs. G. — Not so very much, am I ? 

Capt. G. — All this world and the next to me. 

Mrs. G. — ( Very softly 1) My boy of boys ! 
Shall I tell yoti something ? 

Capt. G. — Yes, if it’s not dreadful — about 
other men. 

Mrs. G. — It’s about my own bad little self. 

Capt. G. — Then it must be good. Go on^ 
dear. 

Mrs. G. — (Slowly,) I don’t know why 
I’m telling you, Pip ; but if ever you marry 
again — (Interlude^) Take your hand from 
my mouth or I’ll bite / — In the future, then re- 
member ... I don’t know quite how to put 
it ! 

Capt. G. — (Snorting indignantly 1) Don’t 
try. “ Marry again,” indeed ! 


76 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Mrs. G. — I must. Listen, my husband. 
Never, never, fiever tell your wife anything 
that you do not wish her to remember and 
think over all her life. Because a woman — 
yes, I am a woman. Sir, — caii't forget. 

Capt. G. — By Jove, how do you know 
that ? 

Mrs. G. — (Confusedly,) I don’t. I’m only 
guessing. I am — I was — a silly little girl ; 
but I feel that I know so much, oh, so very 
much more than you, dearest. To begin 
with, I’m your wife. 

Capt. G. — So I have been led to believe. 

Mrs. G. — And I shall want to know every 
one of your secrets — to share everything you 
know with you. (Stares rou?id desperately for 
lucidity and coherence,) 

Capt. G. — So you shall, dear, so you 
shall — but don’t look like that. 

Mrs. G. — For your own sake don’t stop 
me, Phil. I shall never talk to you in this 
way again. You must ;^^/tell me 1 At least, 
not now. Later on, when I’m an old matron 
it won’t matter, but if you love me, be very 
good to me now ; for this part of my life I 
shall never forget ! Have I made you under- 
stand ? 

Capt. G. — I think so, child. Have I said 
anything yet that you disapprove of ? 

Mrs. G. — Will you be very angry ? That — 
that voice, and what you said about the en- 
gagement— 


The Garden of Eden 77 

Capt. G. — But you asked to be told that, 
darling. 

Mrs. G. — And thafs why you shouldn’t 
have told me ! You must be the judge, and, 
oh, Pip, dearly as I love you, I shan’t be able 
to help you I I shall hinder you, and you 
must judge in spite of me ! 

Capt. G. — {Meditatively^ We have a great 
many things to find out together, God help us 
both — say so. Pussy — but we shall understand 
each other better every day ; and I think I’m 
beginning to see now. How in the world did 
you come to know just the importance of 
giving me just that lead ? 

Mrs. G. — I’ve told you that I don't know. 
Only somehow it seemed that, in all this new 
life, I was being guided for your sake as well 
as my own. ’ 

Capt. G. — (Aside,) Then Maffiin was 
right 1 They know, and we — we’re blind — • 
all of us. (Lightly.) ’Getting a little beyond 
our depth, dear, aren’t we? I’ll remember, 
and, if I fail, let me be punished as I deserve. 

Mrs. G. — There shall be no punishment. 
We’ll start into life together from here — you 
and I — and no one else. 

Capt. G. — And no one else. (A pause.) 
Your eyelashes are all wet, Sweet ? Was 
there ever such a quaint little Absurdity ? 

Mrs. G. — Was there ever such nonsense 
"•alked before ? 

Capt. G. — (Knockhig the ashes out of his 


78 The Story of the Gadsbys 

’Tisn’t what we say, it’s what we don’t 
say, that helps. And it’s all the profoundest 
philosophy. But no one would understand — 
even if it were put into a book. 

Mrs. G. — The idea 1 No — only we our- 
selves, or people like ourselves — if there are 
any people like us. 

Capt. G. — {Magisterially^ All people, not 
like ourselves, are blind idiots. 

Mrs. G. — ( Wiping her eyesl) Do you 
think, then, that there are any people as 
happy as we are ? 

Capt. G. — ’Must be — unless we’ve appro- 
priated all the happiness in the world. 

Mrs. G. — {Looking towards Simla.) Poor 
dears ! Just fancy if we have ! 

Capt. G. — Then we’ll hang on to the 
whole show, for it’s a great deal too jolly to 
lose — eh, wife o’ mine ? 

Mrs. G. — Oh, Pip, Pip 1 How much of 
you is a solemn, married man and how much 
a horrid, slangy schoolboy ? 

Capt. G. — When you tell me how much of 
you was eighteen last birthday and how much 
is as old as the Sphinx and twice as mysteri- 
ous, perhaps I’ll attend to you. Lend me 
that banjo. The spirit moveth me to yowl at 
the sunset. 

Mrs. G. — Mind ! It’s not tuned. Ah ! 
how that jars ! 

Capt. G. — {Turning pegs.) It’s amazingly 
difficult to keep a banjo to proper pitch. 


The Garden of Eden 79 

Mrs. G. — It’s the same with all musical in- 
struments. What shall it be ? 

Capt. G. — “ Vanity,” and let the hills hear. 
(^Sings through the first and half of the second 
verse, Turnmg to Mrs. G.) Now, chorus 1 
Sing, Pussy I 

Both Together — {Con brio, to the horror 
of the monkeys who are settling for the night,) 

“ Vanity, all is Vanity,” said Wisdom, scorning me — 

I clasped my true love’s tender hand and answered 
frank and free — ee : — 

“ If this be Vanity who’d be wise ? 

If this be Vanity who’d be wise ? 

If this be Vanity who’d be wi — ise ? 

(Crescendo.) — Vanity let it be 1 ” 

Mrs. G. — {Defiantly to the gray of the even- 
ing sky,) Vanity let it be ! ” 

Echo. — {Drom the Fagoo spur,) Let it be ! 


CURTAIN, 


FATIMA. 


“ And you may go into every room of the house and 
see everything that is there, but into the Blue Room 
you must 7 tot go. — The Story of Blue Beard. 

Scene. — The Gadsbys’ himgalow in the Plains, 
Time., 1 1 a. m., oti a Sunday morning. Cap- 
tain Gads BY, in his shirt-sleeves, is bending 
over a complete set of Hussafs equipment, 
from saddle to picketmg-rope, which is 7ieatly 
spread over the floor of his study. He is 
smoking an uncleati briar, and his forehead is 
puckered with thought. 

Capt. G. — {To himself ,fl7igermg a head-stalll) 
Jack’s an ass ! There’s enough brass on this 
to load a mule . . . and, if the Americans 
know anything about anything, it can be cut 
down to a bit only. ’Don’t want the watering- 
ing-bridle, either. Humbug ! . . . Half a 
dozen sets of chains and pulleys for the same 
old horse ! {Scratching his head.) Now, let’s 
consider it all over from the beginning. By 
Jove, I’ve forgotten the scale of weights 1 
Ne’er mind. ’Keep the bit only, and eliminate 
every boss from the crupper to the breast- 
80 


Fatima 


8i 


plate. No breastplate at all. Simple leather 
strap across the breast — like the Russians. 
Hi ! Jack never thought of that I 

Mrs. G. — {Entering hastily^ her hand hound 
in a c/oth,) Oh, Pip 1 I’ve scalded my hand 
over that horrid, horrid Tiparee jam. 

Capt. G. — {Absently.') Eh ! Wha-at ? 

Mrs. G. — ( With round-eyed reproach.) 
I’ve scalded it aw-iu\\y ! Aren’t you sorry ? 
And I did so want that jam to jam properly. 

Capt. G. — Poor little woman ! Let me 
kiss the place and make it well. ( Unrolling 
bandage.) Small sinner ! Where’s that scald ? 
I can’t see it. 

Mrs. G. — On the top of the little finger. 
There ! — It’s a most ’normous big burn ! 

Capt. G. — {Kissing little finger.) Baby I 
Let Hyder look after the jam. You know I 
don’t care for sweets. 

Mrs. G. — In-deed ? . . . Pip ! 

Capt. G. — Not of that kind, anyhow. And 
now run along, Minnie, and leave me to my 
own base devices. I’m busy. 

Mrs. G. — {Calmly settling herself m long 
chair.) So I see. What a mess you’re mak- 
ing 1 Why have you brought all that smelly 
leather stuff into the house ? 

Capt. G. — To play with. Do you mind, 
dear ? 

Mrs. G. — Let me play, too. I’d like it. 

Capt. G. — I’m afraid you wouldn’t. Pussy. 

. . . Don’t you think that jam will burn, or 

6 


82 The Story of the Gadsbys 

whatever it is that jam does when it’s not 
looked after by a clever little housekeeper ? 

Mrs. G. — I thought you said Hyder could 
attend to it. I left him in the veranda, stirring 
— when I hurt myself so. 

Capt. G. — {^His eye returning to the equip- 
ment,') Po-oor little woman 1 . . . Three 
pound four and seven is three eleven, and 
that can be cut down to two eight, with just 
a /(f^-tle care, without weakening anything. 
Farriery is all rot in incompetent hands. 
What’s the use of a shoe-case when a man’s 
scouting ? He can’t stick it on with a lick — 
like a stamp — the shoe ! Skittles ! 

Mrs. G. — What’s skittles ? Pah ! What 
is this leather cleaned with ? 

Capt. G. — Cream and champagne and . . . 
Look here, dear, do you really want to talk to 
me about anything important ? 

Mrs. G. — No. I’ve done my accounts, and 
I thought I’d like to see what you’re doing. 

Capt. G. — Well, love, now you’ve seen 
and . . . Would you mind ? . . . That is to 
say. . . Minnie, I really am busy. 

Mrs. G. — You want me to go ? 

Capt. G. — Yes, dear, for a little while. 
This tobacco will hang in your dress, and 
saddlery doesn’t interest you. 

Mrs. G. — Everything you do interests me, 
Pip. 

Capt. G. — Yes, I know, I know, dear. 
I’ll tell you all about it some day when 


Fatima 83 

I’ve put a head on this thing. In the mean- 
time . . . 

Mrs. G. — I’m to be turned out of the room 
like a troublesome child ? 

Capt. G. — No-o. I don’t mean that ex- 
actly. But, you see, I shall be tramping up 
and down, shifting these things to and fro, and 
I shall be in your way. Don’t you think so ? 

Mrs. G. — Can’t I lift them about ? Let 
me try. {Reaches forward to trooper's saddle.) 

Capt. G. — Good gracious, child, don’t 
touch it. You’ll hurt yourself. {Pickmg up 
saddled) Little girls aren’t expected to handle 
numdahs. Now, where would you like it put ? 
{Holds saddle above his head.) 

Mrs. G. — {A break in her voice.) Nowhere. 
Pip, how good you are — and how strong ! 
Oh, what’s that ugly red streak inside your 
arm ? 

Capt. G. — (Powering saddle quickly.) 
Nothing. It’s a mark of sorts. {Aside}) 
And Jack’s coming to tiffin with his notions 
all cut and dried I 

Mrs. G. — I know it’s a mark, but I’ve 
never seen it before. It runs all up the arm. 
What is it ? 

Capt. G. — A cut — if you want to know. 
Mrs. G. — Want to know ! Of course I do 1 
I can’t have my husband cut to pieces in this 
way. How did it come ? Was it an accident ! 
Tell me, Pip. 

Capt. G. — [Grimly.) No. ’Twasn’t an 


84 The Story of the Gadsbys 

accident. I got it — from a man — in Afghan- 
istan. 

Mrs. G. — In action ? Oh, Pip, and you 
never told me ! 

Capt. G. — I’d forgotten all about it. 

Mrs. G. — Hold up your arm j What a 
horrid, ugly scar! Are you sure :t doesn’t 
hurt now ? How did the man give it you ? 

Capt. G. — (^Desperately looking at his 
watchl) With a knife. I came down — Old 
Van Loo did, that’s to say — and fell on my 
leg, so I couldn’t run. And then this man 
came up and began chopping at me as I 
sprawled. 

Mrs. G. — Oh, don’t, don’t I That’s 
enough 1 . . . Well, what happened ? 

Capt. G. — I couldn’t get to my holster, 
and Mafilian came round the corner and 
stopped the performance. 

Mrs. G. — He’s such a lazy man, I don’t 
believe he did. 

Capt. G. — Don’t you ? I don’t think the 
man had much doubt about it. Jack cut his 
head off. 

Mrs. G. — Cut — his — head — off 1 With 
one below ” as they say in the books ? 

Capt. G. — I’m not sure. I was too inter- 
ested in myself to know much about it. Any- 
how, the head was off, and Jack was punch- 
ing old Van Loo in the ribs to make him get 
up. Now you know all about it, dear and 
now . . . 


Fatima 


85 

Mrs. G. — You want me to go, of course. 
You never told me about this, though IVe 
been married to you for ever so long ; and you 
never would have told me if I hadn^t found 
out ; and you never do tell me anything about 
yourself, or what you do, or what you take an 
interest in. 

Capt. G. — Darling, I^m always with you, 
aren’t I ? 

Mrs. G. — Always in my pocket, you were 
going to say. I know you are ; but you are 
always thinking away from me. 

Capt. G. — {Trymg to hide a smile.) Am I ? 
I wasn’t aware of it. I’m awf’ly sorry. 

Mrs. G. — {Piteously.) Oh, don’t make 
fun of me ! Pip, you know what I mean. 
When you are reading one of those things 
about Cavalry, by that idiotic Prince — why 
doesn’t he be a Prince instead of a stable-boy ? 

Capt. G. — Prince Kraft a stable-boy 1 
Oh, my Aunt ! Never mind, dear ! You 
were going to say ? 

Mrs. G. — It doesn’t matter. You don’t 
care for what I say. Only — only you get up 
and walk about the room, staring in front of 
you, and then Mafflin comes in to dinner, and 
after I’m in the drawing-room I can hear you 
and him talking, and talking, and talking, 
about things I can’t understand, and — oh, I 
get so tired and feel so lonely ! — I don’t want 
to complain and be a trouble, Pip ; but I do 
— indeed I do 1 


86 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Capt. G. — My poor darling ! I never 
j thought of that. Why don’t you ask some 
nice people in to dinner ? 

Mrs. G. — Nice people ! Where am I to 
find them ? Horrid frumps I And if I did^ 
I shouldn’t be amused. You know I only 
want you, 

Capt. G. — And you have me surely, 
Sweetheart ? 

Mrs. G. — I have not ! Pip, why don’t you 
take me into your life ? ” 

Capt. G. — More than I do ? That would 
be difficult, dear. 

Mrs. G. — Yes, I suppose it would — to 
you. I’m no help to you — no companion to 
you ; and you like to have it so. 

Capt. G. — Aren’t you a little unreasonable. 
Pussy ? 

Mrs. G. — {Stainpmg her foot.) I’m the 
most reasonable woman in the world — when 
I’m treated properly. 

Capt. G. — And since when have I been 
treating you improperly ? 

Mrs. G. — Always — and since the begin- 
ning. You know you have. 

Capt. G. — I don’t. But I’m willing to be 
convinced. 

Mrs. G. — (^Pointing to saddlery.) There ! 

Capt. G. — How do you mean ? 

Mrs. G. — What does all that mean ? Why 
am I not to be told ? Is it so precious ? 

Capt. G. — I forget its exact Government 


Fatima 87 

value just at present. It means that it is a 
great deal too heavy. 

Mrs. G. — Then why do you touch it ? 

Capt. G. — To make it lighter. See here, 
little love, IVe one notion and Jack has an- 
other, but we are both agreed that all this 
equipment is about thirty pounds too heavy. 
The thing is how to cut it down without weak- 
ening any part of it, and, at the same time, 
allowing the trooper to carry everything he 
wants for his own comfort — socks and shirts 
and things of that kind. 

Mrs. G. — Why doesn’t he pack them in a 
little trunk ? 

Capt. G. — {Kissing her.) Oh, you darling ! 
Pack them in a little trunk, indeed ! Hussars 
don’t carry trunks, and it’s a most important 
thing to make the horse do all the carrying. 

Mrs. G. — But why need yon bother about 
it ? You’re not a trooper. 

Capt. G. — No ; but I command a few score 
of him ; and equipment is nearly everything 
in these days. 

Mrs. G. — More than me ? 

Capt. G. — Stupid ! Of course not ; but it’s 
a matter that I’m tremendously interested in, 
because if I or Jack, or I and Jack, hack out 
some sort of lighter saddlery and all that, it’s 
possible that we may get it adopted. 

Mrs. G.— How ? 

Capt. G. — Sanctioned at Home, where they 
will make a sealed pattern — a pattern that all 


88 The Story of the Gadsbys 

the saddlers must copy — and so' it will be 
used by all the regiments. 

Mrs. G. — And that interests you ? 

Capt. G. — It’s part of my profession, 
y’ know, and my profession is a good deal to 
me. Everything in a soldier’s equipment is 
important, and if we can improve that equip- 
ment, so much the better for the soldiers and 
for us. 

Mrs. G. — Who’s us ” ? 

Capt. G. — Jack and I, though Jack’s no- 
tions are too radical. What’s that big sigh 
for, Minnie ? 

Mrs. G. — Oh, nothing . . . and you’ve 
kept all this a secret from me ! Why ? 

Capt. G. — Not a secret, exactly, dear. I 
didn’t say anything about it to you because I 
didn’t think it would amuse you. 

Mrs. G. — And am I only made to be 
amused ? 

Capt. G. — No, of course. I merely mean 
that it couldn’t interest you. 

Mrs. G. — It’s your work and — and if you’d 
let me, I’d count all these things up. If 
they are too heavy, you know by how much 
they are too heavy, and you must have a list 
of things made out to your scale of lightness, 
and — 

Capt. G. — I have got both scales some- 
where in my head ; but it’s hard to tell how 
light you can make a headstall, for instance, 
until you’ve actually had a model made. 


Fatima 


Mrs. G. — But if you read out the list, I 
could copy it down, and pin it up there just 
above your table. Wouldn’t that do ? 

Capt. G. — It would be awf’ly nice, dear, 
but it would be giving you trouble for nothing. 
I can’t work that way. I go by rule of 
thumb. I know the present scale of weights, 
and the other one — the one that I’m trying 
to work to — will shift and vary so much that 
I couldn’t be certain, even if I wrote it down. 

Mrs. G. — Ihn so sorry. I thought I might 
help. Is there anything else that I could be of 
use in ? 

Capt. G. — {Lookhig round the room,) I can’t 
think of anything. You’re always helping 
me, you know. 

Mrs. G. — Am I ? How ? 

Capt. G. — You are you of course, and as 
long as you’re near me — I can’t explain ex- 
actly, but it’s in the air. 

Mrs. G. — And that’s why you wanted to 
send me away ? 

Capt. G. — That’s only when I’m trying to 
do work — grubby work like this. 

Mrs. G. — Mafflin’s better, then, isn’t he ? 

Capt. G. — {Rashlyl) Of course he is. 
Jack and I have been thinking down the same 
groove for two or three years about this 
equipment. It’s our hobby, and it may really 
be useful some day. 

Mrs. G. — {After a pausel) And that’s all 
that you have away from me ? 


90 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Capt. G. — It isn’t very far away from you 
now. Take care that the oil on that bit 
doesn’t come off on your dress. 

Mrs. G. — I wish — I wish so much that I 
could really help you. I believe I could . . . 
if I left the room. But that’s not what I 
mean. 

Capt. G. — (Aside,) Give me patience I I 
wish she would go. (Aloud,) I assure you 
you can’t do anything for me, Minnie, and 
I must really settle down to this. Where’s 
my pouch ? 

Mrs. G. — (Crossing to writing-table,) Here 
you are, Bear. What a mess you keep your 
table in 1 ♦ 

Capt. G. — Don’t touch it. There’s a 
method in my madness, though you mightn’t 
think it. 

Mrs. G. — (At table,) I want to look. . . . 
Do you keep accounts, Pip ? 

Capt. G. — (Bending over saddlery,) Of a 
sort. Are you rummaging among the Troop 
papers ? Be careful. 

Mrs. G. — Why ? I sha’n’t disturb any- 
thing. Good gracious ! I had no idea that 
you had anything to do with so many sick 
horses. 

Capt. G. — ’Wish I hadn’t, but they insist 
on falling sick. Minnie, if I were you I 
really should not investigate those papers. 
You may come across something that you 
won’t like. 


Fatima 


91 


Mrs. G. — Why will you always treat me 
like a child ? I know I’m not displacing the 
horrid things. 

Capt. G. — {Resignedly^ Very well, then, 
Don’t blame me if anything happens. Play 
with the table and let me go on with the sad- 
dlery. {Slippmg ha7idinto trousers-pocket,) Oh, 
the deuce ! 

Mrs. G. — {Her hack to G.) What’s that for ? 

Capt. G. — Nothing. {Aside,) There’s 
not much of importance in it, but I wish I’d 
torn it up. 

Mrs. G. — {Turning over contents of table,) 
I know you’ll hate me for this ; but I do want 
to see what your work is like. {A pause,) 
Pip, what are “ farcy-buds ” ? 

Capt. G. — Hah ! Would you really like 
to know ? They aren’t pretty things. 

Mrs. G. — This Journal of Veterinary 
Science says they are of absorbing inter- 
est.” Tell me. 

Capt. G. — {Aside,) It may turn her 
attention. 

Gives a long and designedly loathsome account 
of glanders and farcy, 

Mrs. G. — Oh, that’s enough. Don’t go on ! 

Capt. G. — But you wanted to know. . . . 
Then these things suppurate and matterate 
and spread — 

Mrs. G. — Pip, you’re making me sick ! 
You’re a horrid, disgusting schoolboy. 

Capt. G. — {On his knees among the bridles,) 


92 The Story of the Gadsbys 

You asked to be told. It’s not my fault if 
you worry me into talking about horrors. 

Mrs. G. — Why didn’t you say — No ? 

Capt. G. — Good Heavens, child ? Have 
you come in here simply to bully me ? 

Mrs. G. — I bully you ? How could I ! 
You’re so strong. {^Hysterically,') Strong 
enough to pick me up and put me outside 
the door, and leave me there to cry. Aren’t 
you ? 

Capt. G. — It seems to me that you’re an 
irrational little baby. Are you quite well ? 

Mrs. G. — Do I look ill ? {Retur7iing to 
table.) Who is your lady friend with the big 
gray envelope and the fat monogram outside ? 

Capt. G. — {Aside.) Then it wasn’t in the 
drawers, confound it. {Aloud.) God made 
her, therefore let her pass for a woman.” 
You remember what farcy-buds are like ? 

Mrs. G. — {Showing ejivelope.) This has 
nothing to do with them. I’m going to open 
it. May I ? 

Capt. G. — Certainly, if you want to. I’d 
sooner you didn’t, though. I don’t ask to 
look at your letters to the Deercourt girl. 

Mrs. G. — You’d better not. Sir! {Takes 
letter frofn enveloped) Now, may I look ? If 
you say no, I shall cry. 

Capt. G. — You’ve never cried in my 
knowledge of you, and I don’t believe you 
could. 

Mrs. G. — I feel very like it to-day, Pip. 


Fatima 


93 


Don^t be hard on me. {Reads letter,') It 
begins in the middle, without any “ Dear 
Captain Gadsby,’’ or anything. How funny I 

Capt. G. — (Aside,) No, it’s not Dear 
Captain Gadsby, or anything, now. How 
funny 1 

Mrs. G. — What a strange letter ! (Reads,) 
‘‘ And so the moth has come too near the 
candle at last, and has been singed into — 
shall I say Respectability? I congratulate 
him, and hope he will be as happy as he 
deserves to be.” What does that mean ? Is 
she congratulating you about our marriage ? 

Capt. G. — Yes, I suppose so. 

Mrs. G. — (Still reading letter,) She seems 
to be a particular friend of yours. 

Capt. G. — Yes. She was excellent matron 
of sorts — a Mrs. Herriott — wife of a Colonel 
Herriott. I used to know some of her people 
at Home long ago — before I came out. 

Mrs. G. — Some Colonels’ wives are young 
— as young as me. I knew one who was 
younger. 

Capt. G. — Then it couldn’t have been Mrs. 
Herriott. She was old enough to have been 
your mother, dear. 

Mrs. G. — I remember now. Mrs. Scargill 
was talking about her at the Duffins’ tennis, 
before you came for me, on Tuesday. Cap- 
tain Mafflin said she was a ‘‘ dear old woman.” 
Do you know, I think Mafflin is a very clumsy 
man with his feet. 


94 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Capt. G. — {Aside,) Good old Jack! 
{A loud,) Why, dear ? 

Mrs. G. — He had put his cup down on the 
ground then, and he literally stepped into it. 
Some of the tea spirted over my dress — the 
gray one. I meant to tell you about it be- 
fore. 

Capt. G. — (Aside,) There are the mak- 
ings of a strategist about Jack, though his 
methods are coarse. (Aloud,) You’d better 
get a new dress, then. (Aside,) Let us pray 
that that will turn her. 

Mrs. G. — Oh, it isn’t stained in the least. 
I only thought that I’d tell you. (Returning 
to letter,) What an extraordinary person 1 
(Reads,) ‘‘ But need I remind you that you 
have taken upon yourself a charge of ward- 
ship ” — what in the world is a charge of ward- 
ship ? — “ which, as you yourself know, may 
end in Consequences ”... 

Capt. G. — (Aside,) It’s safest to let ’em 
see everything as they come across it ; but 
’seems to me that there are exceptions to the 
rule. (Aloud.) I told you that there was 
nothing to be gained from rearranging my 
table. 

Mrs. G. — (Alsently.) What does the 
woman mean? She goes on talking about 
Consequences — almost inevitable Conse- 
quences ” with a capital C — for half a page. 
(Flushing scarlet.) Oh, good gracious 1 
How abominable 1 


Fatima 


95 


Capt. G. — {Promptly,) Do you think so ? 
Doesn’t it show a sort of motherly interest in 
us? (Aside,) Thank Heaven, Harry al- 
ways wrapped her meaning up safely. 
(Aloud,) Is it absolutely necessary to go on 
with the letter, darling ? 

Mrs. G. — It’s impertinent — it’s simply hor- 
rid. What right has this woman to write in 
this way to you ? She oughtn’t to. 

Capt. G. — When you write to the Deer- 
court girl, I notice that you generally fill three 
or four sheets. Can’t you let an old woman 
babble on paper once in a way ? She means 
well. 

Mrs. G. — I don’t care. She shouldn’t 
write, and if she did, you ought to have shown 
me her letter. 

Capt. G. — Can’t you understand why I 
kept it to myself, or must I explain at length 
— as I explained the farcy-buds ? 

Mrs. G. — {Furiously,) Pip, I hate you ! 
This is as bad as those idiotic saddle-bags on 
the floor. Never mind whether it would 
please me or not, you ought to have given it 
to me to read. 

Capt. G. — It comes to the same thing. 
You took it yourself. 

Mrs. G. — Yes, but if I hadn’t taken it, you 
wouldn’t have said a word. I think this Har- 
riet Herriott — it’s like a name in a book — is' 
an interfering old Thing. 

Capt. G. — (Aside,) So long as you thor- 


96 The Story of the Gadsbys 

oughly understand that she is old, I don’t 
much care what you think. {Aloud.) Very 
good, dear. Would you like to write and tell 
her so ? She’s seven thousand miles away. 

Mrs. G. — I don’t want to have anything to 
do with her, but you ought to have told me. 
{Turning to last page of letter.) And she 
patronizes 7ne^ too. /’ve never seen her! 
(^Reads.) I do not know how the world 
stands with you. In all human probability I 
shall never know ; but whatever I may have 
said before, I pray for her sake more than for 
yours that all may be well. I have learnt 
what misery means, and I dare not wish that 
any one dear to you should share my knowl- 
edge.” 

Capt. G. — Good God 1 Can’t you leave 
that letter alone, or, at least, can’t you refrain 
from reading it aloud ? I’ve been through it 
once. Put it back on the desk. Do you 
hear me ? 

Mrs. G. — {^Irresolutely i) I sh — sha’n’t 1 
{Looks at G.’s eyes.) Oh, Pip, please I I 
didn’t mean to make you angry — ’Deed, I 
didn’t. Pip, I’m so sorry. I know I’ve wasted 
your time . . . 

Capt. G. — {Grimly.) You have. Now, 
will you be good enough to go ... if there 
is nothing more in my room that you are anx- 
ious to pry into ? 

Mrs. G. — {Putting out her hands.) Oh, 
Pip, don’t look at me like that I I’ve never 


Fatima 


97 


seen you look like that before and it hu-urts 
me ! I’m sorry. I oughtn’t to have been 
here at all, and — and — and — {sobbing,') Oh, 
be good to me 1 Be good to me ! There’s 
only you — anywhere ! 

Breaks down m long chair ^ hiding face in 
cushions, 

Capt. G. — (^Aside.) She doesn’t know 
how she flicked me on the raw. ( Aloud ^ bend- 
ing over chair.) I didn’t mean to be harsh, 
dear — I didn’t really. You can stay here as 
long as you please, and do what you please. 
Don’t cry like that. You’ll make yourself sick. 
(Aside.) What on earth has come over her? 
(^Aloud.) Darling, what’s the matter with you ? 

Mrs. G. — (^Her face still hidden.) Let me 
go — let me go to my own room. Only — 
only say you aren’t angry with me. 

Capt. G. — Angry with you^ love ! Of 
course not. I was angry with myself. I’d 
lost my temper over the saddlery. . . . Don’t 
hide your face. Pussy. I want to kiss it. 

Bends loiuer^ Mrs. G. slides right arm round 
his neck. Several interludes and much sobbing. 

Mrs. G. — (In a whisper.) I didn’t mean 
about the jam when I came in to tell you — 

Capt. G. — Bother the jam and the equip- 
ment 1 (^Literlude.) 

Mrs. G. — ( Still more family.) My Anger 
wasn’t scalded at all. I — I wanted to speak 
to you about — about — something else, and — I 
didn’t know how. 

7 


98 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Capt. G. — Speak away, then. (^Looking 
into her eyes.) Eh! Wha — at? Minnie! 
Here, don’t go away ! You don’t mean ? 

Mrs. G. — (^Hysterically^ backing to p07- 
Here and hiding her face in its folds, ') The — 
the Almost Inevitable Consequences ! (f^lits 
through portiere as G. atte7npts to catch hery a7id 
bolts herself in her own rooTn,') 

Capt. G. — (His arTns full of portiere,) Oh! 
(^Sitting dow7i heavily in chair,) I’m a brute 
— a pig — a bully, and a blackguard. My 
poor, poor little darling ! ‘‘ Made to be 

amused only ! ” . . . 


CURTAIN , 


THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. 


“ Knowing Good and Evil.” 

Scene. — The Gadsbys* btmgalo^v in the Plains^ 
m June, Punkah-coolies asleep in veranda 
where Capt. Gadsby is walking up a?id 
down. Doctor^ trap in porch. Junior 
Chaplain Jluctuating generally and un-- 
easily through the house, Time^ 3.40 a. m. 
Heat 94° in veranda. 

Doctor. — {Coming into veranda and touch* 
ing G. on the shoulder,') You had better go in 
and see her now. 

Capt. G. — {The color of good cigar-ashi) 
Eh, wha-at ? Oh, yes, of course. What did 
you say ? 

Doctor. — {Syllable by syllable,) Go — in — 
to — ^the — room — and — see — her. She wants 
to speak to you. {Aside, testily.) I shall have 
him on my hands next. 

Junior Chaplain. — {In half-lighted dming* 
room.) Isn’t there any — ? 

Doctor. — {Savagely.) Hsh, you little fool I 
Junior Chaplain. — Let me do my work. 
Gadsby, stop a minute 1 {Edges after G.) 
Doctor. — Wait till she sends for you at 

LOfC. 99 


loo The Story of the Gadsbys 

least — at least, Man alive, he’ll kill you if 
you go in there 1 What are you bothering 
him for ? 

Junior Chaplain. — {Coming mto veranda.) 
I’ve given him a stiff brandy-peg. He wants 
it. You’ve forgotten him for the last ten 
hours and — ^forgotten yourself too. 

G. entej'S bedroom,, which is lit by one night- 
light, Ayah on the floor pretending to be asleep. 

Voice. — {From the bed,) All down the 
street — such bonfires ! Ayah^ go and put 
them out ! {Appealingly,) How can I sleep 
with an installation of the C. I. E. in my 
room ? No — not C. I. E. Something else. 
What was it ? 

Capt. G. — [Try mg to control his voice,) 
Minnie, I’m here. [Bending over bed.) Don’t 
you know me, Minnie ? It’s me — it’s Phil — 
it’s your husband. 

Voice. — {Mechanically.) It’s me — it’s 
Phil — it’s your husband. 

Capt. G. — She doesn’t know me ! . . . It’s 
your own husband, darling. 

Voice. — Your own husband, darling. 

Ayah. — [With an inspiration.) Memsahib 
understanding all / saying. 

Capt. G. — Make her understand me then — 
quick 1 

Ayah. — [Hand 07i Mrs. G’s. forehead.) 
Memsahib ! Captain Sahib aya. 

Voice. — Salam do. [Fretfully.) I know 
I’m not fit to be seen. 


The Valley of the Shadow loi 

Ayah. — {Aside to G.) Say “ niar7ieefi ” 
same as at breakfash. 

Capt. G. — Good morning, little woman. 
How are we to-day ? 

Voice. — That's Phil. Poor old Phil. 
( Viciously,) Phil, you fool, I can't see you. 
Come nearer. 

Capt. G. — Minnie ! Minnie 1 It’s me — 
you know me ? 

Voice. — {Mockingly,) Of course I do. 
Who does not know the man who was so 
cruel to his wife — almost the only one he 
ever had ? 

Capt. G. — Yes, dear. Yes — of course, of 
course. But won’t you speak to him ? He 
wants to speak to you so much. 

Voice. — They’d never let him in. The 
Doctor would give darwaza band even if 
he were in the house. He’ll never come. 
{Despairingly 1) Oh, Judas! Judas! Judas! 

Capt. G. — {Puttmg out his arms,) They 
have let him in, and he always was in the 
house. Oh, my love — don’t you know me ? 

Voice. — {In a half chant,) And it came 

to pass at the eleventh hour that this poor 
soul repented.” It knocked at the gates, but 
they were shut — tight as a plaster — a great, 
burning plaster. They had pasted our mar- 
riage certificate all across the door, and it was 
made of red-hot iron — people really ought 
to be more careful, you know. 

Capt. G. — What am I to do ? {Takes hef 


102 The Story of the Gadsbys 

in his arms,) Minnie ! speak to me — to 
Phil. 

Voice. — What shall I say ? Oh, tell me 
what to say before it’s too late ! They are all 
going away and I can’t say anything. 

Capt. G. — Say you know me ! Only say 
you know me ! 

Doctor. — ( Who has e7itered quietly,) For 
pity’s sake don’t take it too much to heart, 
Gadsby. It’s this way sometimes. They 
won’t recognize. They say all sorts of queer 
things — don’t you see t 

Capt. G. — All right! All right I Go 
away now ; she’ll recognize me ; you’re both- 
ering her. She must — mustn’t she. Doc ? 

Doctor. — She will before . . . Have I 
your leave to try — 

Capt. G. — Anything you please, so long as 
she’ll know me. It’s only a question of — * 
hours, isn’t it ? 

Doctor. — {Professmiallyi) While there’s 
life there’s hope, y’ know. But don’t build on it. 

Capt. G. — I don’t. Pull her together if 
it’s possible. {Aside.) What have I done to 
deserve this ? 

Doctor. — {Bending over bed.) Now, Mrs. 
Gadsby 1 We shall be all right to-morrow. 
You must take it, or I sha’n’t let Phil see you. 
It isn’t nasty, is it ? 

Voice. — Medicines 1 Always more medi- 
cines 1 Can’t you leave me alone ? 

Capt. G. — Oh, leave her in peace, Doc 1 


The Valley of the Shadow 103 

T>octok.~ ^{S tepping back^ — aside.) May I 
be forgiven if I’ve done wrong. {Aloud.) In 
a few minutes she ought to be sensible ; but 
I daren’t tell you to look for anything. It’s 
only — 

Capt. G. — What ? Go on, man. 

Doctor. — {In a whisper.) Forcing the last 
rally. 

Capt. G. — Then leave us alone. 

Doctor. — Don’t mind what she says at 
first, if you can. They . . . they . . . they 
turn against those they love most sometimes 
in this . . . It’s hard, but . . . 

Capt. G. — Am I her husband or are you ? 
Leave us alone for whatever time we have 
together. 

Voice. — {Confidentially.) And we were 
engaged quite suddenly, Emma. I assure 
you that I never thought of it for a moment ; 
but O my little Me ! — I don’t know what I 
should have done if he hadfil proposed. 

Capt. G. — She thinks of that Deercourt 
girl before she thinks of me. {Aloud.) Minnie I 

Voice. — Not from the shops. Mummy 
dear. You can get the real leaves from 
Kaintu, and {laughmg weakly) never mind 
about the blossoms . . . Dead white silk is 
only fit for widows, and I won! wear it. It’s 
as bad as a winding-sheet. {A long pause.) 

Capt. G. — I never asked a favor yet. If 
there is anybody to listen to me, let her know 
me — even if I die too 1 


104 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Voice. — ) Very faintly.') Pip, Pip dear. 

Capt. G. — I’m here, darling. 

Voice. — What ha^ happened ? They’ve 
been bothering me so with medicines and 
things, and they wouldn’t let you come and 
see me. I was never ill before. Am I ill 
now ? 

Capt. G. — You — you aren’t quite well. 

Voice. — How funny ! Have I been ill 
long ? 

Capt. G. — Some days ; but you’ll be all 
right in a little time. 

Voice. — Do you think so, Pip? I don’t 
feel well and . . . Oh ! what have they done 
to my hair ? 

Capt. G. — I d-d-don’t know. 

Voice. — They’ve cut it off. What a 
shame ! 

Capt. G. — It must have been to make 
your head cooler. 

Voice. — ’Just like a boy’s wig. Don’t I 
look horrid ? 

Capt. G. — Never looked prettier in your 
life, dear. (Aside.) How am I to ask her 
to say good-by ? 

Voice. — I don’t /eel pretty. I feel very 
ill. My heart won’t work. It’s nearly dead 
inside me, and there’s a funny feeling in my 
eyes. Everything seems the same distance 
— you and the almirah and the table — in- 
side my eyes or miles away. What does it 
mean, Pip? 


The Valley of the Shadow 105 

Capt. G. — YouVe a little feverish, Sweet- 
heart — very feverish. {Breaking down,') 
My love ! my love ! How can I let you go ? 

Voice. — I thought so. Why didn’t you 
tell me that at first ? 

Capt. G.— What ? 

Voice. — That I am going to . . • die. 

Capt. G. — But you aren’t! You sha’n’t. 

Ayah. — {Stepping into vei-anda after a glance 
at the bed.) Punkah chor do I 

Voice. — It’s hard, Pip. So very, very 
hard after one year — just one year. ( Wail- 
ing,) And I’m only twenty. Most girls 
aren’t even married at twenty. Can’t they do 
anything to help me ? I don’t want to die. 

Capt. G. — Hush, dear. You won’t. 

Voice. — What’s the use of talking ? Help 
me 1 You’ve never failed me yet. Oh, Phil, 
help me to keep alive. {Feverishlyl) I don’t 
believe you wish me to live. You weren’t a 
bit sorry when that horrid Baby thing died. 
I wish I’d killed Baby! 

Capt. G. — {Drawing his hand across his 
foi'ehead.) It’s more than a man’s meant to 
bear — it’s not right. {Aloud,) Minnie, love, 
I’d die for you if it would help. 

Voice. — No more death. There’s enough 
already. Pip, don’t you die too. 

Capt. G. — I wish I dared. 

Voice. — It says : — ‘‘ Till Death do us 
part.” Nothing after that . . . and so it 
would be no use. It stops at the dying. 


io6 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Why does it stop there ? Only such a very 
short life, too. Pip, I^m sorry we married. 

Capt. G. — No ! Anything but that, Min ! 

Voice.— Because you’ll forget and I’ll for- 
get. Oh, Pip, do7i^t forget ! 1 always loved 

you, though I was cross sometimes. If I 
ever did anything that you didn’t like, say you 
forgive me now. 

Capt. G. — You never did, darling. On 
my soul and honor you never did. I haven’t 
a thing to forgive you. 

Voice. — I sulked for a whole week about 
those petunias. (With a laughi) What a 
little wretch I was, and how grieved you 
were ! Forgive me that, Pip. 

Capt. G. — There’s nothing to forgive. It 
was my fault. They were too near the drive. 
For God’s sake don’t talk so, Minnie ! There’s 
such a lot to say and so little time to say it in. 

Voice. — Say that you’ll always love me — 
until the end. 

Capt. G. — Until the end. (Carried away.) 
It’s a lie. It must be, because we’ ve loved 
each other. This isn’t the end. 

Voice. — (Relapsmg into semi-delirium.) My 
Church-service has an ivory cross on the 
back, and it says so, so it must be true. 
‘‘ Till death do us part.” . . . But that’s a 
lie. ( With a parody of G.‘s manner i) A 
damned lie ! (Recklessly i) Yes, I can swear 
as well as Trooper Pip. I can’t make my 
head think, though. That’s because they cut 


The Valley of the Shadow 107 

off my hair. How can one think with one’s 
head all fuzzy ? {Pleadingly^ Hold me, 
Pip ! Keep me with you always and always. 
{Relapsing!) But if you marry the Thorniss 
girl when I’m dead, I’ll come back and howl 
under our bedroom window all night. Oh, 
bother ! You’ll think I’m a jackal. Pip, 
what time is it ? 

Capt. G. — A little before the dawn, dear. 

Voice. — I wonder where I shall be this 
time to-morrow ? 

Capt. G. — Would you like to see the 
Padre ? 

Voice. — Why should I ? He’d tell me that 
I’m going to heaven ; and that wouldn’t be 
true, because you are here. — Do you recol- 
lect when he upset the cream-ice all over his 
trousers at the Gassers’ tennis ? 

Capt. G. — Yes, dear. 

Voice. — I often wondered whether he got 
another pair of trousers ; but then his are so 
shiny all over that you really couldn’t tell un- 
less you were told. Let’s call him in and ask. 

Capt. G. — {Gravely,) No. I don’t think 
he’d like that. ’Your head comfy. Sweet- 
heart ? 

Voice. — {Faintly with a sigh of content’* 
ment) Yethl Gracious, Pip, when did you 
shave last ? Your chin’s worse than the bar- 
rel of a musical box. ... No, don’t lift it up. 
I like it. {A pause,) You said you’ve never 
cried at all. You’re crying all over my cheek. 


io8 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Capt. G. — I — I — I can’t help it, dear. 

Voice. — How funny ! I couldn’t cry now 
to save my life. (G. shivers,') I want to 
sing. 

Capt. G. — Won’t it tire you ? ’Better not, 
perhaps. 

Voice. — Why ? I won't be ordered about 1 
(Begins in a hoarse quaver) : — 

Minnie bakes oaken cake, Minnie brews ale, 

All because her Johnnie’s coming home from the sea. 

(That’s parade, Pip). 

And she grows red as a rose who was so pale : 

And “ Are you sure the church clock goes ? ” says she. 

(jPettish/y.) I knew I couldn’t take the 
last note. How do the bass chords run ? 
(Buts out her hands and begms playing piano 
on the sheet,) 

Capt. G. — (Catching up hands,) Ah 1 don’t 
do that. Pussy, if you love me. 

Voice. — Love you ? Of course I do. Who 
else should it be ? (A pause,) 

Voice. — (Very clearly,) Pip, I’m going 
now. Something’s choking me cruelly. (In- 
distinctly,) Into the dark . . . without you, 
my heart. . . . But it’s a lie, dear. . . We 
mustn’t believe it. . . . For ever and ever, 
living or dead. Don’t let me go, my husband — 
hold me tight. . . . They can’t . . . whatever 
happens. (A cough,) Pip — Pip ! Not for 
always . . . and . . . so . . . soon I ( Voice 
ceases,) 

Pause of ten minutes, G. buries his face in 


The Valley of the Shadow 109 

the side of the bed while Ayah be?ids over bed 
from opposite side and feels Mrs. G.’s breast 
and forehead, 

Capt. G. — {Risifigl) Doctor Sahib ko salaam 
do. 

Ayah. — {Still by bedside., with a shriek.) Ai 1 
Ai ! Tt^ta — phuta / M.y Memsahib I Not get- 
ting — not have got — Pusseena agya I {Fiercely 
toQxl) Tum jao Doctor Sahib ko jaldi I Oh ! 
my Me?nsahib / 

Doctor. — {Entering hastily.) Come away, 
Gadsby. {Bends over bed.) Eh ? The Dev — 
What inspired you to stop the punkah ? Get 
out, man — go away — wait outside ! Go ! 
Here, Ayah! {Over his shoulder to G.) 
Mind, I promise nothing. 

The dawn breaks as G. stumbles mto the gar- 
den. 

Capt. M. — {Reining up at the gate on his 
way to parade and very soberly.) Old man, 
how goes ? 

Capt. G. — {Dazed.) I don’t quite know. 
Stay a bit. Have a drink or something. 
Don’t run away. You’re just getting amusing. 
Ha! Hal 

Capt. M. — {Aside.) What am I let in for ? 
Gaddy has aged ten years in the night. 

Capt. G. — ( Slowly., fingering charge?^ s head- 
stall.) Your curb’s too loose. 

Capt. M. — So it is. Put it straight, will 
you ? {Aside.) I shall be late for parade. 
Poor Gaddy I 


110 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Capt. G. links and 7inli7iks ciirh-chain aim- 
lessly^ and filially stands staring towards the 
veranda. The day brightens. 

Doctor. — [Knocked out of professional g7\iv- 
ity, tramping across flower-beds and shaking 
G/s hands,') It’s — it’s — it’s ! — Gadsby, there’s 
a fair chance — a dashed fair chancel The 
flicker, y’know. The sweat, y’know ! I saza 
how it would be. The punkah, y’know. 
Deuced clever woman that Ayah of yours. 
Just at the right time. A dashed good chance 1 
No — you don’t go in. We’ll pull her through 
yet. I promise on my reputation — under Prov- 
idence. Send a man with this note to Bingle. 
Two heads better than one. ’Specially the 
Ayah ! Wedl pull her round. {Retreats 
hastily to house,) 

Capt. G. — {His head on neck ^M.’s charger.) 
Jackl I bub — bub — believe, I’m going to 
make a bub — bub — bloody exhibition of by- 
self. 

Capt. M. — {Snijfing openly and feeling in 
his left cufi!^.) I b-b — believe I’b doing it al- 
ready. Old bad, what cad I say ? I’b as 
pleased as — Cod dab you, Gaddy I You’re 
one big idiot and I’b adother. ( Fulling himself 
together,) Sit tight ! Here comes the Devil 
dodger. 

Junior Chaplain. — ( Who is not in the Doc- 
tor's confidence i) We — we are only men in 
these things, Gadsby. I know that I can say 
nothing now to help — 


The Valley of the Shadow iii 

Capt. M. — {Jealously^ Then don’t say it ! 
Leave him alone. It^s not bad enough to 
croak over. Here, Gaddy, take the chit to 
Bingle and ride hell-for-leather. It’ll do you 
good. I can’t go. 

Junior Chaplain. — Do him good ! {Smil- 
ing i) Give me the chit and I’ll drive. Let 
him lie dovrn. Your horse is blocking my 
cart — -please ! 

Capt. M. — {Slowly , without reining backl) 
I beg your pardon — I’ll apologize. On paper 
if you like. 

Junior Chaplain. — {Flicking M’s charger.) 
That’ll do, thanks. Turn in, Gadsby, and I’ll 
bring Bingle back — ahem — “ hell-for-leather.” 

Capt. M. — {Solus.) It would ha’ served 
me right if he had cut me across the face. 
He can drive too. I shouldn’t care to go 
that pace in a bamboo cart. What a faith he 
must have in his Maker — of harness ! Come 
hup., you brute ! {Gallops off to parade^ blow- 
ing his 7iose, as the sun rises.) 

Interval of five weeks. 

Mrs. G. — ( Very white and pinched^ in morn- 
ing wrapper at breakfast table.) How big and 
strange the room looks, and oh, how glad I 
am to see it again ! What dust, though ! I 
must talk to the servants. Sugar, Pip ? I’ve 
almost forgotten. {Seriously.) Wasn’t I very 
ill? 

Capt. G. — Iller than I liked. {Tenderly) 


1 1 2 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Oh, you bad little Pussy, what a start you gave 
me 1 

Mrs. G. — I’ll never do it again. 

Capt. G. — You’d better not. And now 
get those poor pale cheeks pink again, or I 
shall be angry. Don’t try to lift the urn. 
You’ll upset it. Wait. (Comes roujid to 
head of table and lifts tirnl) 

Mrs. G. — (Quickly 1) Khitmatgar^ bow- 
archi-kha7ia se kettly lao, (Drawing down G.’s 
face to her oivnl) Pip dear, I remember. 

Capt. G. —What ? 

Mrs. G. — That last terrible night. 

Capt. G. — Then just you forget all about 
it. 

Mrs. G. — (Softly^ her eyes filling 1) Never. 
It has brought us very close together, my hus- 
band. There ! (Interlude,) I’m going to 
give Junda a saree. 

Capt. G. — I gave her fifty dibs. 

Mrs. G. — So she told me. It was a ’nor- 
mous reward. Was I worth it ? (Several in- 
terludes.) Don’t ! Here’s the khitmatgar , — 
Two lumps or one. Sir ? 


CURTAIN. 


THE SWELLING OF JORDAN, 


“ If thou hast run with the footmen and they have 
weaned thee, then how canst thou contend with horses ? 
And if in the land of peace wherein thou trustedst they 
have wearied thee, how wilt thou do in the swelling of 
Jordan ? 

Scene. — The Gadsbys* bungalow m the Flams ^ 
on a January morning, Mrs. G. arguing 
with bearer m back veranda, Capt. M. 
rides up, 

Capt. M. — ’Mornin’, Mrs. Gadsby. How’s 
the Infant Phenomenon and the Proud Pro- 
prietor ? 

Mrs. G. — You’ll find them in the front 
veranda ; go through the house. I’m Martha 
just now. 

Capt. M. — ’Cumbered about with cares of 
khitmatgars ? I fly. 

Passes into front veranda where Gadsby is 
watching Gadsby junior, aetate ten mo7iths^ 
crawling about the matting, 

Capt. M. — What’s the trouble, Gaddy — 
spoiling an honest man’s Europe morning this 
way ? {Seeing G. junior.) By Jove, that 
8 1 13 


1 14 The Story of the Gadsbys 

yearling’s cornin’ on amazingly ! Any amount 
of bone below the knee there. 

’ Capt. G. — Yes, he’s a healthy little scoun- 
drel. Don’t you think his hair’s growing ? 

M. — Let’s have a look. Hi ! Hst ! Come 
here, General Luck, and we’ll report on you. 

Mrs. G. — ( Wif/im.) What absurd name 
will you give him next? Why do you call 
him that ? 

M. — Isn’t he our Inspector-General of Cav- 
alry ? Doesn’t he come down in his seventeen- 
two perambulator every morning the Pink 
Hussars parade ? Don’t wriggle. Brigadier. 
Give us your private opinion on the way the 
third squadron went past. ’Trifle ragged, 
weren’t they ? 

G. — A bigger set of tailors than the new 
draft I don’t wish to see. They’ve given me 
more than my fair share — knocking the 
squadron out of shape. It’s sickening ! 

M. — When you’re in command, you’ll do 
better, young ’un. Can’t you walk yet? Grip 
my finger and try. (To G.) ’Twon’t hurt 
his hocks, will it ? 

G. — Oh, no. Don’t let him flop, though, 
or he’ll lick all the blacking off your boots. 

Mrs. G. — (Within,) Who’s destroying my 
son’s character ? 

M. — And my Godson’s. I’m ashamed of 
you, Gaddy. Punch your father in the eye. 
Jack ! Don’t you stand it ! Hit him again ! 

G. — (Sotto voce.) Put The Butcha down and 


The Swelling of Jordan 115 

come to the end of the veranda. I’d rather 
the Wife didn’t hear — just now. 

M. — You look awf’ly serious. Anything 
wrong ? 

G. — ’Depends on your view entirely. I say, 
Jack, you won’t think more hardly of me than 
you can help, will you? Come further this 
way. . . . The fact of the matter is that I’ve 
made up my mind — at least I’m thinking seri- 
ously of . . . cutting the Service. 

M. — Hwhatt ? 

G. — Don’t shout. I’m going to send in my 
papers. 

M. — You ! Are you mad ? 

G. — No — only married. 

M. — Look here ! What’s the meaning of 
it all ? You never intend to leave us. You 
can't. Isn’t the best squadron of the best reg- 
iment of the best cavalry in all the world good 
enough for you ? 

G. — (^Jerkhig his head over his shoulder,^ 
She doesn’t seem to thrive in this God-for- 
saken country, and there’s The Butcha to be 
considered and all that, you know. 

M. — Does she say that she doesn’t like 
India ? 

G. — That’s the worst of it. She won’t for 
fear of leaving me. 

M. — What are the Hills made for ? 

G. — Not for my wife, at any rate. 

M. — You know too much, Gaddy, and — 
I don’t like you any the better for it I 


ii6 The Story of the Gadsbys 

G. — Never mind that. She wants England, 
and The Biitcha would be all the better for it. 
I’m going to chuck. You don’t understand. 

M. — (Hot/y.) I understand One hun- 
dred and thirty-seven new horses to be licked 
into shape somehow before Luck comes round 
again ; a hairy-heeled draft who’ll give more 
trouble than the horses ; a camp next cold 
weather for a certainty ; ourselves the first on 
the roster ; the Russian shindy ready to come 
to a head at five minutes’ notice, and you, the 
best of us all, backing out of it all ! Think a 
little, Gaddy. You won^t do it. 

G. — Hang it, a man has some duties towards 
his family, I suppose. 

M. — I remember a man, though, who told 
me, the night after Amdheran, when we were 
picketed under Jagai, and he’d left his sword 
— by the way, did you ever pay Ranken for 
that sword ? — in an Utmanzai’s head — that 
man told me that he’d stick by me and the 
Pinks as long as he lived. I don’t blame him 
for not sticking by me — I’m not much of a man 
— but I do blame him for not sticking by the 
Pink Hussars. 

G. — {Uneasily.) We were little more than 
boys then. Can’t you see. Jack, how things 
stand ? ’Tisn’t as if we were serving for our 
bread. We’ve all of us, more or less, got the 
filthy lucre. I’m luckier than some, perhaps. 
There’s no call for me to serve on. 

M. — None in the world for you or for us, 


The Swelling of Jordan 117 

except the Regimental. If you don’t choose 
to answer to that^ of course . . . 

G. — Don’t be too hard on a man. You 
know that a lot of us only take up the thing 
for a few years and then go back to Town and 
catch on with the rest. 

M. — Not lots, and they aren’t some of Us, 

G. — And then there are one’s affairs at 
Home to be considered — my place and the 
rents, and all that. I don’t suppose my father 
can last much longer, and that means the 
title, and so on. 

M. — ’Fraid you won’t be entered in the Stud 
Book correctly unless you go Home ? Take 
six months, then, and come out in October. 
If I could slay off a brother or two, I s’pose I 
should be a Marquis of sorts. Any fool can 
be that ; but it needs me7i^ Gaddy — men like 
you — to lead flanking squadrons properly. 
Don’t you delude yourself into the belief that 
you’re going Home to take your place and 
prance about among pink-nosed Cabuli dow- 
agers. You aren’t built that way. I know 
better. 

G. — A man has a right to live his life as 
happily as he can. You aren’t married. 

M. — No — praise be to Providence and the 
one or two women who have had the good 
sense to jaw ah me. 

G. — Then you don’t know what it is to go 
into your own room and see your wife’s head 
on the pillow, and when everything else is safe 


ii8 The Story of the Gadsbys 

and the house bunded up for the night, to 
wonder whether the roof-beams won’t give and 
kill her. 

M. — (Aside,) Revelations first and second I 
(Aloud.) So-o ! I knew a man who got 
squiffy at our Mess once and confided to me 
that he never helped his wife on to her horse 
without praying that she’d break her neck 
before she came back. All husbands aren’t 
alike, you see. 

G. — What on earth has that to do with my 
case ? The man must ha’ been mad, or his 
wife as bad as they make ’em. 

M. — (Aside.) ’No fault of yours if either 
weren’t all you say. You’ve forgotten the 
time when you were insane about the Herriott 
woman. You always were a good hand at for- 
getting. (Aloud.) Not more mad than men 
who go to the other extreme. Be reasonable, 
Gaddy. Your roof-beams are sound enough. 

G. — That was only a way of speaking. I’ve 
been uneasy and worried about the Wife ever 
since that awful business three years ago — 
when — I nearly lost her. Can you wonder ? 

M. — Oh, a shell never falls twice in the 
same place. You’ve paid your toll to misfor- 
tune — why should your Wife be picked out 
more than anybody else’s ? 

G. — I can talk just as reasonably as you 
can, but you don’t understand — you don’t un- 
derstand. And then there’s The Butcha. 
Deuce knows where the Ayah takes him to sit 


The Swelling of Jordan 119 

in the evening I He has a bit of a cough. 
Haven’t you noticed it ? 

M. — Bosh 1 The Brigadier’s jumping out 
of his skin with pure condition. He’s got a 
muzzle like a rose-leaf and the chest of a two- 
year-old. What’s demoralized you ? 

G. — Funk. That’s the long and the short 
of it. Funk ! 

M. — But what is there to funk ? 

G. — Everything. It’s ghastly. 

M. — Ah ! I see. 

“ You don’t want to fight, 

And by Jingo when we do, 

You’ve got the kid, you’ve got the Wife, 

You’ve got the money, too.” 

That’s about the case, eh ? 

G. — I suppose that’s it. But it’s not for 
myself. It’s because t tJmn, At least, I 
think it is. 

M. — Are you sure ? Looking at the matter 
in a cold-blooded light, the Wife is provided 
for even if you were wiped out to-night. 
She has an ancestral home to go to, money, 
and the Brigadier to carry on the illustrious 
name. 

G. — Then it is for myself or because they 
are part of me. You don’t see it. My life’s 
so good, so pleasant, as it is, that I want to 
make it quite safe. Can’t you understand ? 

M. — Perfectly. “ Shelter-pit for the Orf’- 
cer’s charger,” as they say in the Line. 


120 The Story of the Gadsbys 

G. — And I have everything to my hand to 
make it so. I’m sick of the strain and the 
worry for their sakes out here ; and there isn’t 
a single real difficulty to prevent my dropping 
it altogether. It’ll only cost me . . . Jack, I 
hope you’ll never know the shame that I’ve 
been going through for the past six months. 

M. — Hold on there ! I don’t wish to be 
told. Every man has his moods and tenses 
sometimes. 

G. — {Laughing bitterly^ Has he.^ What 
do you call craning over to see where the near- 
fore lands ? 

M. — In my case it means that I have been 
on the Considerable Bend, and have come to 
parade with a Head and a Hand, It passes 
in three strides. 

G . — {Lowering voicei) It nezer passes with 
me, Jack. I’m alw vs thinking about it. 
Phil Gadsby funking a Isll on parade ! Sweet 
picture, isn’t it ! Draw it for me. 

M. — {Gravely,') Heaven forbid ! A man 
like you can’t be as bad as that. A fall is no 
nice thing, but one never gives it a thought. 

G. — Doesn’t one ? Wait till you’ve got a 
wife and a youngster of your own, and then 
you’ll know how the roar of the squadron 
behind you turns you cold all up the back. 

M. — {Aside,) And this man led at Am- 
dheran after Bagal-Deasin went under, and we 
were all mixed up together, and he came out 
of the show dripping like a butcher ! {Aloud,) 


The Swelling of Jordan 12 1 

Skittles ! The men can always open out, and 
you can always pick your way more or less. 
We haven’t the dust to bother us, as the men 
have, and whoever heard of a horse stepping 
on a man ? 

G. — Never — as long as he can see. But 
did they open out for poor Errington ? 

M. — Oh, this is childish ! 

G. — I know it is, and worse than that. I 
don’t care. You’ve ridden Van Loo. Is he 
the sort of brute to pick his way — ’specially 
when we’re coming up in column of troop with 
any pace on ? 

M. — Once in a Blue Moon do we gallop in 
column of troop, and then only to save time. 
Aren’t three lengths enough for you ? 

G. — Yes — quite enough. They just allow 
for the full development of the smash. I’m 
talking like a cur, I know: but I tell you 
that, for the past three months, I’ve felt every 
hoof of the squadron in the small of my back 
every time that I’ve led. 

M. — But Gaddy, this is awful ! 

G. — Isn’t it lovely? Isn’t it royal? A 
Captain of the Pink Hussars watering up his 
charger before parade like the blasted boozing 
Colonel of a Black Regiment I 

M. — You never did ! 

G. — Once only. He squelched like a mus- 
suck, and the Troop-Sergeant-Major cocked 
his eye at me. You know old Haffy’s eye. 
I was afraid to do it again. 


122 The Story of the Gadsbys 

M. — I should think so. That was the best 
way to rupture old Van Loo's tummy, and 
make him crumple you up. You knew that. 

G. — I didn’t care. It took the edge off him. 

M. — “ Took the edge off him ! ” Gaddy, 
you — you — you musUCt^ you know ! Think 
of the men. 

G. — That’s another thing I am afraid of. 
D’you s’pose they know ? 

M. — Let’s hope not ; but they’re deadly 
quick to spot a skrim — little things of that 
kind. See here, old man, send the Wife 
Home for the hot weather and come to Kash- 
mir with me. We’ll start a boat on the Dal 
or cross the Rhotang — ibex or idleness — 
which you please. Only cofne I You’re a bit 
off your oats and you’re talking nonsense. 
Look at the Colonel — swag-bellied rascal that 
he is. He has a wife and no end of a bow- 
window of his own. Can any one of us ride 
round him — chalkstones and all ? I can’t, 
and I think I can shove a crock along a bit. 

G. — Some men are different. I haven’t 
the nerve. Lord help me, I haven’t the 
nerve ! I’ve taken up a hole and a half to get 
my knees well under the wallets. I can’t help 
it. I’m so afraid of anything happening to 
me. On my soul, I ought to be broke in front 
of the squadron, for cowardice. 

M. — Ugly word, that. I should never have 
the courage to own up. 

G. — I meant to lie about my reasons when I 


The Swelling of Jordan 123 

began, but — IVe got out of the habit of lying 
to you, old man. Jack, you won't . . . But 
I know you won't. 

M. — Of course not. {Half aloud.) The 
Pinks are paying dearly for their Pride. 

G.— Eh? Wha-at? 

M. — Don't you know ? We've called Mrs. 
Gadsby the Pride of the Pink Hussars ever 
since she came to us. 

G. — 'Tisn't her fault. Don’t think that. 
It's all mine. 

M. — What does she say ? 

G. — I haven’t exactly put it before her. 
She’s the best little woman in the world. Jack, 
and all that . . . but she wouldn’t counsel 
a man to stick to his calling if it came between 
him and her. At least, I think — 

M. — Never mind. Don’t tell her what you 
told me. Go on the Peerage and Landed- 
Gentry tack. 

G. — She'd see through it. She’s five times 
cleverer than I am. 

M. — (Aside.) Then she’ll accept the sacri- 
fice and think a little bit worse of him for the 
rest of her days. 

G. — (Ahseully.) I say, do you despise me ? 

M. — ’Queer way of putting it. Have you 
ever been asked that question ? Think a 
minute. What answer used you to give ? 

G. — So bad as that ? I’m not entitled to 
expect anything more ; but it’s a bit hard 
when one’s best friend turns round and — 


124 The Story of the Gadsbys 

M. — So /have found. But you will have 
consolations — Bailiffs and Drains and Liquid 
Manure and the Primrose League, and, per- 
haps, if you’re lucky, the Colonelcy of a 
Yeomanry Cav-al-ry Regiment — all uniform 
and no riding, I believe. How old are you ? 

G. — Thirty-three. I know it’s . . . 

M. — At forty you’ll be a fool of a J. P. 
landlord. At fifty you’ll own a bath-chair, 
and The Brigadier, if he takes after you, will 
be fluttering the dove-cotes of — what’s the par- 
ticular dunghill you’re going to ? Also, Mrs. 
Gadsby will be fat. 

G. — {Limply.') This is rather more than a 
joke. 

M. — D’you think so ? Isn’t cutting the 
Service a joke ? It generally takes a man 
fifty years to arrive at it. You’re quite right, 
though. It is more than a joke. You’ve 
managed it in thirty-three. 

G. — Don’t make me feel worse than I do. 
Will it satisfy you if I own that I am a shirker, 
a skrimshanker, and a coward ? 

M. — It will not., because I’m the only man 
in the world who can talk to you like this 
without being knocked down. You mustn’t 
take all that I’ve said to heart in this way. I 
only spoke — a lot of it at least — out of pure 
selfishness because, because — Oh, damn it all 
old man, — I don’t know what I shall do with- 
out you. Of course, you’ve got the money and 
the place and all that — and there are two very 


The Swelling of Jordan 125 

good reasons why you should take care of 
yourself. 

G. — ’Doesn’t make it any the sweeter. I’m 
backing out — I know I am. I always had a 
soft drop in me somewhere — and I daren’t risk 
any danger to them, 

M. — Why in the world should you ? You’re 
bound to think of your family — bound to think. 
Er-hmm. If I wasn’t a younger son I’d go 
too — be shot if I wouldn’t ! 

G. — Thank you, Jack. It’s a kind lie, but 
it’s the blackest you’ve told for some time. 
I know what I’m doing, and I’m going into it 
with my eyes open. Old man, I ca7i^t help it. 
What would you do if you were in my place ? 

M. — (Aside,) ’Couldn’t conceive any 
woman getting permanently between me and 
the Regiment. (Aloud.) ’Can’t say. ’Very 
likely I should do no better. I’m sorry for 
you — awf’ly sorry — but if them’s your sen- 
timents ” I believe, I really do, that you are 
acting wisely. 

G. — Do you ? I hope you do. (In a whis- 
per.) Jack, be very sure of yourself before 
you marry. I’m an ungrateful ruffian to say 
this, but marriage — even as good a marriage 
as mine has been — hampers a man’s work, it 
cripples his sword-arm, and oh, it plays Hell 
with his notions of duty 1 Sometimes — good 
and sweet as she is — sometimes I could wish 
that I had kept my freedom. ... No, I 
don’t mean that exactly. 


126 The Story of the Gadsbys 

Mrs. G. — (^Commg dow?t veranda.) What 
are you wagging your head over, Pip ? 

M. — (^Turning qicickly.) Me, as usual. 
The old sermon. Your husband is recom- 
mending me to get married. ’Never saw such 
a one-idead man ! 

Mrs. G. — Well, why don’t you ? I dare 
say you would make some woman very happy. 

G. — There’s the Law and the Prophets, 
Jack. Never mind the Regiment. Make a 
woman happy. {Aside.) O Lord ! 

M. — We’ll see. I must be off to make a 
Troop Cook desperately unhappy. I won^t 
have the wily Hussar fed on G. B. T. shin- 
bones. . . . {Hastily.) Surely black ants 
can’t be good for The Brigadier. He’s pick- 
ing ’em off the chitai and eating ’em. Here, 
Sehor Comandante Don Grubbynose, come 
and talk to me. ( Lifts G. junior in his arms . ) 
’Want my watch? You won’t be able to put 
it into your mouth, but you can try. (G. junior 
drops watch^ breaking dial a7id hands.) 

Mrs. G. — Oh, Captain Mafffin, I am so 
sorry 1 Jack, you bad, bad little villain. Ahhh ! 

M. — It’s not the least consequence, I assure 
you. He’d treat the world in the same way if 
he could get it into his hands. Everything’s 
made to be played with and broken, isn’t it, 
young ’un ? (Tenderly.) Oh, Diamond, 
Diamond, thou little knowest the mischief that 
thou hast done.” 


The Swelling of Jordan 127 

Mrs. G. — Mafflin didn’t at all like his watch 
being broken, though he was too polite to say 
so. It was entirely his fault for giving it to 
the child. Dem little puds are werry, werry 
feeble, aren’t dey, my Jack-in-the-box? (71? 
G.) What did he want to see you for ? 

G. — Regimental shop o’ sorts. 

Mrs. G. — The Regiment 1 Always the 
Regiment. On my word, I sometimes feel 
jealous of Mafflin. 

G. — {Wearily,) Poor old Jack! I don’t 
think you need. Isn’t it time for The Butcha 
to have his nap ? Bring a chair out here, dear. 
I’ve got something to talk over with you. 

And this is the End of the Story of 
THE Gadsbys. 


L’ENVOI 


What is the moral ? Who rides may read. 
When the night is thick and the tracks are 
blind 

A friend at a pinch is a friend indeed ; 

But a fool to wait for the laggard behind . 
Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne 
He travels the fastest who travels alone. 

White hands cling to the tightened rein, 
Slipping the spur from the booted heel, 
Tenderest voices cry, ‘‘ Turn again,” 

Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel. 

High hopes faint on a warm hearthstone — 
He travels the fastest who travels alone. 

One may fall but he falls by himself — 

Falls by himself with himself to blame ; 

One may attain and to him is the pelf. 

Loot of the city in Gold or Fame : 

Plunder of earth shall be all his own 
Who travels the fastest and travels alone. 

128 


L’Envoi 


129 

Wherefore the more ye be holpen and 
stayed — 

Stayed by a friend in the hour of toil, 

Sing the heretical song I have made — 

His be the labor and yours be the spoil. 
Win by his aid and the aid disown — 

He travels the fastest who travels alone. 












THE GERM DESTROYER. 


Pleasant it is for the Little Tin Gods 
When great Jove nods ; 

But Little Tin Gods make their little mistakes 
In missing the hour when great Jove wakes. 

As a general rule, it is inexpedient to med- 
dle with questions of State in a land where 
men are highly paid to work them out for 
you. This tale is a justifiable exception. 

Once in every five years, as you know, we 
indent for a new Viceroy ; and each Viceroy 
imports, with the rest of his baggage, a Pri- 
vate Secretary, who may or may not be the 
real Viceroy, just as Fate ordains. Fate 
looks after the Indian Empire because it is so 
big and so helpless. 

There was a Viceroy once, who brought out 
with him a turbulent Private Secretary — a hard 
man with a soft manner and a morbid passion 
for work. This Secretary was called Wonder 
— John Fennil Wonder. The Viceroy pos- 
sessed no name — nothing but a string of 
counties and two-thirds of the alphabet after 
them. He said, in confidence, that he was the 
electro-plated figure-head of a golden admin- 
istration, and he watched in a dreamy, amused 
way Wonder^s attempts to draw matters which 
were entirely outside his province into his own 


132 The Germ Destroyer 

hands. ‘‘ When we are all cherubims to- 
gether,” said His Excellency once, “ my dear, 
good friend Wonder will head the conspiracy 
for plucking out Gabriel’s tail-feathers, or 
stealing Peter’s keys. Then I shall report him.” 

But, though the Viceroy did nothing to check 
Wonder’s officiousness, other people said un- 
pleasant things. Maybe the Members of 
Council began it ; but, finally, all Simla agreed 
that there was “ too much Wonder, and too 
little Viceroy ” in that rkgime. Wonder was 
always quoting “ His Excellency.” It was 
“ His Excellency this,” “ His Excellency that,” 
“ In the opinion of his Excellency,” and so 
on. The Viceroy smiled ; but he did not heed. 
He said that so long as his old men squabbled 
with his dear, good Wonder,” they might 
be induced to leave the “ Immemorial East ” 
in peace. 

“ No wise man has a policy,” said the Vice- 
roy. “ A Policy is the blackmail levied on 
the Fool by the Unforeseen. I am not the 
former, and I do not believe in the latter.” 

I do not quite see what this means, unless 
it refers to an Insurance Policy. Perhaps it 
was the Viceroy’s way of saying : — Lie low.” 

That season, came up to Simla one of these 
crazy people with only a single idea. These 
are the men who make things move ; but they 
are not nice to talk to. This man’s name was 
Mellish, and he had lived for fifteen years on 
land of his own, in Lower Bengal, studying 
cholera. He held that cholera was a germ 


The Germ Destroyer 133 

that propagated itself as it flew through a 
muggy atmosphere ; and stuck in the branches 
of trees like a woolflake. The germ could be 
rendered sterile, he said, by “ Mellish’s Own 
Invincible Fumigatory — a heavy violet-black 
powder — “ the result of fifteen years’ scientific 
investigation, Sir ! ” 

Inventors seem very much alike as a caste. 
They talk loudly, especially about “ conspira- 
cies of monopolists ; ” they beat upon the 
table with their fists ; and they secrete frag- 
ments of their inventions about their persons. 

Hellish said that there was a Medical 
“Ring” at Simla, headed by the Surgeon- 
General, who was in league, apparently, with 
all the Hospital Assistants in the Empire. I 
forget exactly how he proved it, but it had 
something to do with “ skulking up to the 
Hills ” ; and what Hellish wanted was the 
independent evidence of the Viceroy — “ Stew- 
ard of our Most Gracious Majesty the Queen, 
Sir.” So Hellish went up to Simla, with 
eighty-four pounds of Fumigatory in his trunk, 
to speak to the Viceroy and to show him the 
merits of the invention. 

But it is easier to see a Viceroy than to 
talk to him, unless you chance to be as im- 
portant as Mellishe of Madras. He was a 
six-thousand-rupee man, so great that his 
daughters never “ married.” They “ con- 
tracted alliances.” He himself was not paid. 
He received emoluments,” and his journeys 
about the country were “ tours of observa- 


134 The Germ Destroyer 

tion.” His business was to stir up the people 
in Madras with a long pole — as you stir up 
tench in a pond — and the people had to come 
up out of their comfortable old ways and 
gasp : — “ This is Enlightenment and Prog- 
ress. Isn’t it fine!” Then they gave Mellishe 
statues and jasmine garlands, in the hope of 
getting rid of him. 

Mellishe came up to Simla ‘‘ to confer with 
the Viceroy.” That was one of his perquisites. 
The Viceroy knew nothing of Mellishe except 
that he was “ one of those middle-class deities 
who seem necessary to the spiritual comfort of 
this Paradise of the Middle-classes,” and that, 
in all probability, he had “ suggested, designed, 
founded, and endowed all the public institu- 
tions in Madras.” Which proves that His Ex- 
cellency, though dreamy, had experience of the 
ways of six-thousand-rupee men. 

Mellishe’s name was E. Mellishe, and Mel- 
ish’s was E. S. Mellish, and they were both stay- 
ing at the same hotel, and the Fate that looks 
after the Indian Empire ordained that Wonder 
should blunder and drop the final “ ^ ” that the 
Chaprassi should help him, and that the note 
which ran : ‘‘ Dear Mr. Mellish. — Ca7i you set 

aside your other e7tgage7ne?its, a7id hutch with 
tis at two to-TTiorrow ? Mis Excellency has a7i 
hour at your disposal thetiP should be given to 
Mellish with the Fumigatory. He nearly wept 
with pride and delight, and at the appointed 
hour cantered to Peterhoff, a big-paper bag full 
of the Fumigatory in his coat-tail pockets. He 


The Germ Destroyer 135 

had his chance, and he meant to make the 
most of it. Mellishe of Madras had been so 
portentously solemn about his “ conference,’’ 
that Wonder had arranged for a private tiffin, 
— no A.-D.-C.’s, no Wonder, no one but the 
Viceroy, who said plaintively that he feared 
being left alone with unmuzzled autocrats 
like the great Mellishe of Madras. 

But his guest did not bore the Viceroy. On 
the contrary, he amused him. Mellish was 
nervously anxious to go straight to his Fumi- 
gatory, and talked at random until tiffin w^as 
over and His Excellency asked him to smoke. 
The Viceroy was pleased with Mellish be- 
cause he did not ‘‘ talk shop.” 

As soon as the cheroots were lit, Mellish 
spoke like a man ; beginning with his cholera- 
theory, reviewing his fifteen years’ “ scientific 
labors,” the machinations of the “Simla 
Ring,” and the excellence of his Fumigatory, 
while the Viceroy watched him between half- 
shut eyes and thought: “ Evidently, this is 
the wrong tiger ; but it is an original animal.” 
Mellish’s hair was standing on end with ex- 
citement, and he stammered. He began grop- 
ing in his coat-tails and, before the Viceroy 
knew what was about to happen, he had 
tipped a bagful of his powder into the big 
silver ash-tray. 

“ J-j-judge for yourself. Sir,” said Melish. 
“ Y’ Excellency shall judge for yourself ! Ab- 
solutely infallible, on my honor.” 

He plunged the lighted end of his cigar into 


136 The Germ Destroyer 

the powder, which began to smoke like a vol- 
cano, and send up fat, greasy wreaths of copper- 
colored smoke. In five seconds the room was 
filled with a most pungent and sickening stench 
— a reek that took fierce hold of the trap of 
your windpipe and shut it. The powder then 
hissed and fizzed, and sent out blue and green 
sparks, and the smoke rose till you could 
neither see, nor breathe, nor gasp. Hellish, 
however, was used to it. 

“ Nitrate of strontia,’^ * he shouted ; baryta, 
bone-meal, et-cetera! Thousand cubic feet 
smoke per cubic inch. Not a germ could live 
— not a germ, Y’ Excellency ! ’’ 

But His Excellency had fled, and was cough- 
ing at the foot of the stairs, while all Peterhoff 
hummed like a hive. Red Lancers came in, 
and the Head Chaprassi, who speaks English, 
came in, and mace-bearers came in, and ladies 
ran downstairs screaming, ^‘fire^^ ; for the 
smoke was drifting through the house and ooz- 
ing out of the windows, and bellying along the 
verandas, and wreathing and writhing across 
the gardens. No one could enter the room 
where Hellish was lecturing on his Fumigatory, 
till that unspeakable powder had burned itself 
out. 

Then an Aide-de-Camp, who desired the 
V. C. , rushed through the rolling clouds and 
hauled Hellish into the hall. The Viceroy 
was prostrate with laughter, and could only 
waggle his hands feebly at Hellish, who was 
shaking a fresh bagful of powder at him. 


The Germ Destroyer 137 

Glorious ! Glorious ! sobbed His Excel- 
lency. “ Not a germ, as you justly observed, 
could exist ! I can swear it. A magnificent 
success ” 

Then he laughed till the tears came, and 
Wonder, who had caught the real Mellishe 
snorting on the Mall, entered and was deeply 
shocked at the scene. But the Viceroy was de- 
lighted, because he saw that Wonder would 
presently depart. Mellish with the Fumigatory 
was also pleased, for he felt that he had 
smashed the Simla Medical “ Ring.’’ 


Few men could tell a story like His Excel- 
lency when he took the trouble, and the 
account of “ my dear, good Wonder’s friend 
"with the powder ” went the round of Simla, 
and flippant folk made Wonder unhappy by 
their remarks. 

But His Excellency told the tale once too 
often — for Wonder. As he meant to do. It 
was at a Seepee Picnic. Wonder was sitting 
just behind the Viceroy. 

“ And I really thought for a moment,” 
wound up His Excellency, “ that my dear, good 
Wonder had hired an assassin to clear his way 
to the throne ! ” 

Every one laughed ; but there was a delicate 
subtinkle in the Viceroy’s tone which Wonder 
understood. He found that his health was 
giving away ; and the Viceroy allowed him to 


138 The Germ Destroyer 

go, and presented him with a flaming char- 
acter ’’ for use at Home among big people. 

“ My fault entirely/’ said His Excellency, in 
after seasons, with a twinkling in his eye. “ My 
inconsistency must always have been distasteful 
to such a masterly man.” 


IN THE HOUSE OF SUDDHOO. 


A stone’s throw out on either hand 
From that well-ordered road we tread, 

And all the world is wild and strange ; 

Churel and ghoul and Djimt and sprite 
Shall bear us company to-night, 

For we have reached the Oldest Land 
Wherein the Powers of Darkness range. 

From the Dusk to the Dawn, 

The house of Suddhoo, near the Taksali 
Gate, is two storied, with four carved windows 
of old brown wood, and a flat roof. You may 
recognize it by five red hand-prints arranged 
like the Five of Diamonds on the whitewash 
between the upper windows. Bhagwan Dass, 
the bunnia, and a man who says he gets his 
living by seal-cutting live in the lower story 
with a troop of wives, servants, friends, and re- 
tainers. The two upper rooms used to be oc- 
cupied by Janoo and Azizun and a little black- 
and-tan terrier that was stolen from an English- 
man’s house and given to Janoo by a soldier. 
To-day, only Janoo lives in the upper rooms. 
Suddhoo sleeps on the roof generally, except 
when he sleeps in the street. He used to go 
to Peshawar in the cold weather to visit his 
son, who sells curiosities near the Edwardes’ 
Gate, and then he slept under a real mud roof. 
Suddhoo is a great friend of mine, because his 

139 


140 In the House of Suddhoo 

cousin had a son who secured, thanks to my 
recommendation, the post of head-messenger 
to a big firm in the Station. Suddhoo says 
that God will make me a Lieutenant-Governor 
one of these days. . I daresay his prophecy 
will come true. He is very, very old, with 
white hair and no teeth worth showing, and 
he has outlived his wits — outlived nearly every- 
thing except his fondness for his son at Pe- 
shawar. Janoo and Azizun are Kashmiris, 
Ladies of the City, and theirs was an ancient 
and more or less honorable profession ; but 
Azizun has since married a medical student 
from the Northwest and has settled down to 
a more respectable life somewhere near Bar- 
eilly. Bhagwan Dass is an extortionate and an 
adulterator. He is very rich. The man who 
is supposed to get his living by seal-cutting 
pretends to be very poor. This lets you know 
as much as is necessary of the four principal 
tenants in the house of Suddhoo. Then there 
is Me, of course ; but I am only the chorus 
that comes in at the end to explain things. 
So I do not count. 

Suddhoo was not clever. The man who 
pretended to cut seals was the cleverest of 
them all — Bhagwan Dass only knew how to 
lie — except Janoo. She was also beautiful, 
but that was her own affair. 

Suddhoo^s son at Peshawar was attacked 
by pleurisy, and old Suddhoo was troubled. 
The seal-cutter man heard of Suddhoo’s anx- 
iety and made capital out of it. He was 


In the House of Suddhoo 141 

abreast of the times. He got a friend in Pe- 
shawar to telegraph daily accounts of the son’s 
health. And here the story begins. 

Suddhoo’s cousin’s son told me, one even- 
ing, that Suddhoo wanted to see me ; that he 
was too old and feeble to come personally, 
and that I should be conferring an everlasting 
honor on the House of Suddhoo if I went to 
him. I went ; but I think, seeing how well- 
off Suddhoo was then, that he might have sent 
something better than an ekka, which jolted 
fearfully, to haul out a future Lieutenant- 
Governor to the City on a muggy April even- 
ing. The ekka did not run quickly. It was 
full dark when we pulled up opposite the 
doorof Ranjit Singh’s Tomb near the main 
gate of the Fort. Here was Suddhoo, and 
he said that, by reason of my condescen- 
sion, it was absolutely certain that I should 
become a Lieutenant-Governor while my hair 
was yet black. Then we talked about the 
weather and the state of my health, and the 
wheatcrops, for fifteen minutes, in the Huzuri 
Bagh, under the stars. 

Suddhoo came to the point at last. He said 
Janoo had told him that there was an order of 
the Sirkar against magic, because it was feared 
that magic might one day kill the Empress of 
India. I didn’t know anything about the state 
of the law ; but I fancied that something inter- 
esting was going to happen. I said that so far 
from magic being discouraged by the Govern- 
ment it was highly commended. The greatest 


142 In the House of Suddhoo 

officials of the State practised it themselves. 
(If the Financial Statement isn’t magic, I 
don’t know what is.) Then, to encourage him 
further, I said that, if there was any ;adoo^.ioot 
I had not the least objection to giving it my 
countenance and sanction, and to seeing that 
it was clean jadoo — white magic, as distin- 
guished from the unclean jadoo which kills 
folk. It took a long time before Suddhoo ad- 
mitted that this was just what he had asked 
me to come for. Then he told me, in jerks 
and quavers, that the man who said he cut 
seals was a sorcerer of the cleanest kind ; that 
every day he gave Suddhoo news of the sick 
son in Peshawar more quickly than the light- 
ning could fly, and that this news was always 
corroborated by the letters. Further, that he 
had told Suddhoo how a great danger was 
threatening his son, which could be removed 
by clean jadoo; and, of course, heavy pay- 
ment. I began to see exactly how the land 
lay, and told Suddhoo that /also understood 
a little jadoo in the Western line, and would 
go to his house to see that everything was 
done decently and in order. We set off to- 
gether ; and on the way Suddhoo told me that 
he had paid the seal-cutter between one hun- 
dred and two hundred rupees already ; and 
the jadoo of that night would cost two hun- 
dred more. Which was cheap, he said, con- 
sidering the greatness of his son’s danger; 
but I do not think he meant it. 

The lights v/ere all cloaked in the front of 


In the House of Suddhoo 143 

the house when we arrived. I could hear 
awful noises from behind the seal-cutter’s 
shop-front, as if some one were groaning his 
soul out. Suddhoo shook all over, and while 
we groped our way upstairs told me that the 
jadoo had begun. Janoo and Azizun met us 
at the stair-head, and told us that the jadoo- 
work was coming off in their rooms, because 
there was more space there, Janoo is a lady 
of a freethinking turn of mind. She whispered 
that the jadoo was an invention to get money 
out of Suddhoo, and that the seal-cutter would 
go to a hot place when he died. Suddhoo 
was nearly crying with fear and old age. He 
kept walking up and down the room in the 
half light, repeating his son’s name over and 
over again, and asking Azizun if the seal- 
cutter ought not to make a reduction in the 
case of his own landlord. Janoo pulled me 
over to the shadow in the recess of the carved 
bow-windows. The boards were up, and the 
rooms were only lit by one tiny oil-lamp. 
There was no chance of my being seen if I 
stayed still. 

Presently the groans below ceased, and we 
heard steps on the staircase. That was the 
seal-cutter. He stopped outside the door as 
the terrier barked and Azizun fumbled at the 
chain, and he told Suddhoo to blow out the 
lamp. This left the place in jet darkness, ex- 
cept for the red glow from the two huqas that 
belonged to Janoo and Azizun. The seal- 
cutter came in, and I heard Suddhoo throw 


144 In the House of Suddhoo 

himself down on the floor and groan. Azizun 
caught her breath, and Janoo backed on to 
one of the beds with a shudder. There was a 
clink of something metallic, and then shot up 
a pale blue-green flame near the ground. 
The light was just enough to show Azizun, 
pressed against one corner of the room with 
the terrier between her knees; Janoo, with 
her hands clasped, leaning forward as she sat 
on the bed ; Suddhoo, face down, quivering, 
and the seal-cutter. 

I hope I may never see another man like 
that seal-cutter. He was stripped to the waist, 
with a wreath of white jasmine as thick as my 
wrist round his forehead, a salmon-colored 
loin-cloth round his middle, and a steel bangle 
on each ankle. This was not awe-inspiring. 
It was the face of the man that turned me cold. 
It was blue-gray in the first place. In 
the second, the eyes were rolled back till 
you could only see the whites of them ; 
and, in the third, the face was the face of a 
demon — a ghoul — anything you please ex- 
cept of the sleek, oily old ruffian who sat in 
the daytime over his turning-lathe down- 
stairs. He was lying on his stomach with his 
arms turned and crossed behind him, as if he 
had been thrown down pinioned. His head 
and neck were the only parts of him off the 
floor. They were nearly at right angles to 
the body, like the head of a cobra at spring. 
It was ghastly. In the center of the room, 
on the bare earth floor, stood a big, deep brass 


In the House of Suddhoo 145 

basin, with a pale blue-green light floating in 
the center like a night-light. Round that basin 
the man on the floor wriggled himself three 
times. How he did it I do not know. I could 
see the muscles ripple along his spine and fall 
smooth again ; but I could not see any other 
motion. The head seemed the only thing 
alive about him, except that slow curl and un- 
curl of the laboring back-muscles. Janoo 
from the bed was breathing seventy to the 
minute ; Azizun held her hands before her 
eyes ; and old Suddhoo, fingering at the dirt 
that had got into his white beard, was crying 
to himself. The horror of it was that the 
creeping, crawly thing made no sound — only 
crawled ! And, remember, this lasted for ten 
minutes, while the terrier whined, and Azizun 
shuddered, and Janoo gasped, and Suddhoo 
cried. 

I felt the hair lift at the back of my head, 
and my heart thump like a thermantidote 
paddle. Luckily, the seal-cutter betrayed him- 
self by his most impressive trick and made me 
calm again. After he had finished that un- 
speakable triple crawl, he stretched his head 
away from the floor as high as he could, and 
sent out a jet of fire from his nostrils. Now 
I knew how fire-spouting is done — I can do it 
myself — so I felt at ease. The business was 
a fraud. If he had only kept to that crawl 
without trying to raise the effect, goodness 
knows what I might not have thought. Both 
the girls shrieked at the jet of fire and the 
10 


146 In the House of Suddhoo 

head dropped, chin-down on the floor with a 
thud ; the whole body lying then like a corpse 
with its arms trussed. There was a pause of 
five full minutes after this, and the blue-green 
flame died down. Janoo stooped to settle one 
of her anklets, while Azizun turned her face 
to the wall and took the terrier in her arms. 
Suddhoo put out an arm mechanically to 
Janoo^s hiiqa^ and she slid it across the floor 
with her foot. Directly above the body and 
on the wall, were a couple of flaming portraits, 
in stamped paper frames, of the Queen and 
the Prince of Wales. They looked down on 
the performance, and, to my thinking, seemed 
to heighten the grotesqueness of it all. 

Just when the silence was getting unendur- 
able, the body turned over and rolled away 
from the basin to the side of the room, where 
it lay stomach-up. There was a faint “ plop 
from the basin — exactly like the noise a fish 
makes when it takes a fly — and the green light 
in the center revived. 

I looked at the basin, and saw, bobbing in 
the water the dried, shriveled, black head of 
a native baby — open eyes, open mouth and 
shaved scalp. It was worse, being so very 
sudden, than the crawling exhibition. We 
had no time to say anything before it began 
to speak. 

Read Poe^s account of the voice that came 
from the mesmerized dying man, and you will 
realize less than one-half of the horror of that 
head's voice. 


In the House of Suddhoo 147 

There was an interval of a second or two be- 
tween each word, and a sort of “ ring, ring, 
ring,” in the note of the voice like the timbre 
of a bell. It pealed slowly, as if talking to it- 
self, for several minutes before I got rid of my 
cold sweat. Then the blessed solution struck 
me. I looked at the body lying near the door- 
way, and saw, just where the hollow of the 
throat joins on the shoulders, a muscle that had 
nothing to do with any man’s regular breath- 
ing, twitching away steadily. The whole 
thing was a careful reproduction of the 
Egyptian teraphin that one reads about some- 
times ; and the voice was as clever and as ap- 
palling a piece of ventriloquism as one could 
wish to hear. All this time the head was 
“lip-lip-lapping” against the side of the 
basin, and speaking. It told Suddhoo, on his 
face again whining, of his son’s illness and of 
the state of the illness up to the evening of 
that very night. I always shall respect the 
seal-cutter for keeping so faithfully to the 
time of the Peshawar telegrams. It went on 
to say that skilled doctors were night and day 
watching over the man’s life ; and that he 
would eventually recover if the fee to the 
potent sorcerer, whose servant was the head 
in the basin, were doubled. 

Here the mistake from the artistic point of 
view came in. To ask for twice your stipu- 
lated fee in a voice that Lazarus might have 
used when he rose from the dead, is absurd. 
Janoo, who is really a woman of masculine 


148 In the House of Suddhoo 

intellect, saw this as quickly as I did. I 
heard her say ‘ ‘ As/i nahin ! Fareib ! 
scornfully under her breath ; and just as she 
said so, the light in the basin died out, the 
head stopped talking, and we heard the room 
door creak on its hinges. Then Janoo struck 
a match, lit the lamp, and we saw that head, 
basin, and seal-cutter were gone. Suddhoo 
was wringing his hands and explaining to any 
one who cared to listen, that, if his chances 
of eternal salvation depended on it, he could 
not raise another two hundred rupees. 
Azizun was nearly in hysterics in the corner ; 
while Janoo sat down composedly on one of 
the beds to discuss the probabilities of the 
whole thing being a hu7iao^ or “ make-up,*' 

I explained as much as I knew of the seal- 
cutter’s way of jadoo ; but her argument was 
much more simple : — “ The magic that is al- 
ways demanding gifts is no true magic,” said 
she. “ My mother told me that the only 
potent love-spells are those which are told 
you for love. This seal-cutter man is a liar 
and a devil. I dare not tell, do anything, or 
get anything done, because I am in debt to 
Bhagwan Dass the bunnia for two gold rings 
and a heavy anklet. I must get my food 
from his shop. The seal-cutter is the friend 
of Bhagwan Dass, and he would poison my 
food. A fool's jadoo has been going on for 
ten days, and has cost Suddhoo many rupees 
each night. The seal-cutter used black hens 
and lemons and ma^itras before. He never 


In the House of Suddhoo 149 

showed us anything like this till to-night. 
Azizun is a fool, and will be piir dahnashm 
soon. Suddhoo has lost his strength and his 
wits. See now ! I had hoped to get from 
Suddhoo many rupees while he lived, and 
many more after his death ; and behold, he 
is spending everything on that offspring of a 
devil and a she-ass, the seal-cutter ! 

Here I said : — “ But what induced Suddhoo 
to drag me into the business ? Of course I can 
speak to the seal-cutter, and he shall refund. 
The whole thing is child’s talk — shame — and 
senseless.” 

“ Suddhoo Aan old child,” said Janoo. ‘‘ He 
has lived on the roofs these seventy years and 
is as senseless as a milch-goat. He brought 
you here to assure himself that he was not 
breaking any law of the Sirkar, whose salt he 
ate many years ago. He worships the dust 
off the feet of the seal-cutter, and that cow- 
devourer has forbidden him to go and see his 
son. What does Suddhoo know of your laws 
or the lightning-post ? I have to watch his 
money going day by day to that lying beast 
below. ” 

Janoo stamped her foot on the floor and 
nearly cried with vexation ; while Suddhoo 
was whimpering under a blanket in the corner, 
and Azizun was trying to guide the pipe-stem 
to his foolish old mouth. 


Now the case stands thus. Unthinkingly, 


150 In the House of Suddhoo 

I have laid myself open to the charge of aid- 
ing and abetting the seal-cutter in obtaining 
money under false pretenses, which is for- 
bidden by Section 420 of the Indian Penal 
Code. I am helpless in the matter for these 
reasons, I cannot inform the Police. What 
witnesses would support my statements ? 
Janoo refuses flatly, and Azizun is a veiled 
woman somewhere near Bareilly — lost in this 
big India of ours. I dare not again take the 
law into my own hands, and speak to the seal- 
cutter ; for certain am I that, not only would 
Suddhoo disbelieve me, but this step would 
end in the poisoning of Janoo, who is bound 
hand and foot by her debt to the hiinnia, 
Suddhoo is an old dotard ; and whenever we 
meet mumbles my idiotic joke that the Sirkar 
rather patronizes the Black Art than other- 
wise. His son is well now ; but Suddhoo is 
completely under the influence of the seal- 
cutter, by whose advice he regulates the affairs 
of his life. Janoo watches daily the money 
that she hoped to wheedle out of Suddhoo 
taken by the seal-cutter, and becomes daily 
more furious and sullen. 

She will never tell, because she dare not; 
but, unless something happens to prevent 
her, I am afraid that the seal-cutter will die 
of cholera — the white arsenic kind — about the 
middle of May. And thus I shall have to be 
privy to a murder in the House of Suddhoo. 













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